


A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words: Illyrian Madness

by ModernDayBard



Category: Twelfth Night - Shakespeare
Genre: F/M, I novelized our high school production, it's basically the play, using a modern translation for the dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 13:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 45,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18208640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernDayBard/pseuds/ModernDayBard
Summary: (Re-posted from my FF account: not stolen)Identical twins separated in a shipwreck, scheming pranksters battling a tight-laced kill-joy, and a TRUE love triangle—there never was such a mad land as Illyria, but it might just hold some magic in it as well. (Translation and Novelization of Shakespeare's 12th Night)





	1. Intro/Cast List/Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So, a long time ago, I had the goal to do a series of Shakespeare fanfics/novelizations based on some of my favorite productions. I don’t know if I’ll ever finish the others, but as the planned ‘series intro’ sums up what I was trying to do and why, I have included it here, followed by the story intro and ‘cast list’.

A picture is truly worth 1,000 words, but a master of words can create pictures in our minds that resonate with us our whole lives, enduring through the ages as generation after generation finds themselves in pictures painted only with letters.  Such a master was William Shakespeare, and that is why he has outlasted his contemporaries. 

Yet English has moved on since his time, helped in great part by the man himself, who coined many of the words we use today, and modern readers often have great difficulty comprehending the rich wordplay replete through every script, sometimes missing even key plot points.

Thus it rests with the actors and directors to ‘complete the picture,’ to present the master’s works in a way that everyone can understand.  They must employ conventions of staging, inflections and tones of voice to convey emotions so that we get the gist, even if we miss some of the particulars.  The world of the play must come to life on stage if we wish to draw the audience in.

That world is defined by the characters within: rich and poor, wise and foolish, innocent and scheming. The actors must decide their place in the world of the play—who do they know, and how do they feel about the other inhabitants of whatever land the play takes place in?

Here is my attempt at accomplishing the Shakespearean actor’s two major goals—make the Bard accessible and create believable characters—with only words on a page.  I am not the wordsmith that Mr. Shakespeare was, only an actress describing pictures, giving people backstories I’d give them if I had to portray them.  This is my attempt to translate the some of his plays closest to my heart, to share them with you, if you would go along with me…

* * *

_Welcome to Illyria, a whimsical, fantastical place filled with such eclectic characters and styles, Elizabethan sensibilities but modern tricks of speech, that many an outsider has wondered if he is dreaming, or mad…_

_…At the Duke’s palace, resplendent in exotic finery, the servants tiptoe around their volatile master, humoring him in his melodramatic pursuit of love, but fearing his sudden outbursts of temper…_

_…At the house of Countess Olivia, several worlds co-exist.  There is the slightly American-old-western flavored domain of the lady of the house, ostensibly in deep morning for brother and father, spurning all outside contact and attended by her three ladies in waiting…_

_…There is also that of Olivia’s uncle, Sir Toby Belch, whose steam-punk garb and drunken ways conceal a once-quick mind and a devious nature, as he strings along his ‘friend’ Sir Andrew Aguecheek—a hopeless idiot, shameless coward, a foppish dresser, but rich enough to make him worth fooling—with the help of Fabian, one of Olivia’s servants…_

_…Bridging this divide, the up-tight Malvolio, head steward to Olivia, and bustling but clever Maria are ever at odds over an old quarrel…_

_…Around the town between these ‘noble’ houses, the bowler-hat wearing jester, Feste, panders to both Duke and Countess accompanied by the local musicians in their street-performer’s garb…_

_…And, oblivious to all this, a ship sails on across the water as storm clouds gather…_

* * *

**Cast of Characters:**

**Viola/Cesario—** the heroine of the play, a clever young woman with a quick wit, seeking out a new life with her brother now that their family’s fortunes have fallen, leaving them with nothing but a name.  She and her twin brother, Sebastian, are sailing to meet one of their father’s old acquaintances, hoping a quick arranged marriage with Viola may turn their situation around.  The girl is willing, but not eager, often quarreling with her brother, annoyed that he will not seek out some other way.

**Duke Orsino—** the local noble man of Illyria, and once a great warrior.  Since his land has been at peace after the last great sea-war, Orsino has lapsed into egotism and slight narcissism.  He fancies himself the world’s best lover: faithful, despairing, going through all the right motions and emotions, but his one true concern is being once more the best at his latest pursuit. 

**Countess Olivia—** the closest equal to Orsino in rank, wealth, or egotism, Olivia finds herself not only the object of Orsino’s ‘affections’ but also pursued by the ignoble knight, Sir Andrew Aguecheek.  While not interested in either suitor, Olivia enjoys the feeling of power over both, especially the Duke, after so long of being under the authority of her father and brother.  She ostensibly remains in morning for her brother, always rebuffing the duke, but always showing enough calculated effort to keep him coming back, and she amuses herself to see how long he will keep this up, reveling in being completely in charge of her own life. 

**Sebastian—** Viola’s twin brother, he falls a little short of his sister in wit, but makes up for it with an earnest and open demeanor.  He’s no fool though, and he knows the quickest cure to his family’s situation is to marry Viola off to a rich family friend, at least ensuring his sister shall be well-cared for.  Viola’s continued insistence that he at least try to find another way feels like her latest attempt to lord her superior intellect over him, and the two have quarreled for most of their journey. 

**Malvolio—** the head servant in Olivia’s household, he worked hard to move up the ranks of her retainers.  His singular ambition is to rise above his current social class, a goal that has cost him much, especially in love.  Believing he is soon bound to be ‘bettered,’ he refuses to socialize with the other servants, lording what authority he does have over them, and generally acting like a supreme nuisance and busybody.

**Feste—** the only one who can rival Viola’s wit, he has embraced his place as the jester, cleverly and shamelessly manipulating all who would call him ‘fool,’ draining their pockets at every turn.  He has found a profession where he is paid to insult those giving him gold, so long as he intersperses his barbs with sweet songs and clever word tricks, and Feste is one of the few people in Illyria content with his lot—likely the wisest character in the play. 

**Sir Toby Belch—** Diana’s uncle, he was once a great man.  But his brain, now thoroughly marinated in alcohol, is useless for anything but childish pranks and conniving money from his dupe, Sir Andrew Aguecheek.  Most assume there is no bringing him back, but perhaps he is not too far gone, for all the wine Illyria seems to be unable to quench the one faint spark of love he still has. 

**Maria—** a servant to Olivia, it would seem that she, not Malvolio, is the one who keeps everything running smoothly.  Maria has a reasonable wit, so is caught up in neither the giggling foolishness of the other female servants, nor the lazy foolishness of the male servants.  It is unclear to many observers whether she truly loves Sir Toby, for though she often scolds, she seems to show him more patience than his behavior (and choice of companions) warrant.  She has been burned by love before, and is willing enough to join in the pranks when Malvolio is the butt of the joke.

**Sir Andrew Aguecheek—** a hopeless idiot, shameless coward, a foppish dresser, he is the object of ridicule of most in Olivia’s household, though he is unaware of the fact.  He actually fancies himself witty, brave, romantic, a good dancer, etc.—delusions that if shattered, would most likely crush him.  His only good point is a steady income, which Sir Toby is steadily leeching, squandering on drinks as he pitilessly encourages Sir Andrew’s ill-advised pursuit of Olivia. 

**Antonio—** a sea-merchant of moderately large income who has great skill with a blade, Antonio fought for his city against Illyria in the last great sea-war, accompanied by his younger brother, Henry.  Henry was killed in retribution after Titus, a nephew to Duke Orsino, lost his leg, and Antonio never forgave himself—his brother being little more than a boy at the time.  He also never forgave Illyria, he alone refusing to pay back what he stole during the fighting, earning him Orsino’s lasting enmity, and placing him in great peril should he ever be so foolish as to journey to Illyria. 

**Fabian—** typical of many of Olivia’s servants, Fabian is content enough with his lot in life, and quite happy doing just the bare minimum to retain his position, spending whatever time he has to himself pursuing his own ends.  He’s rather fond of his cousin, Maria, so whenever she asks for his help, especially when it comes to pranks, he is quick to lend aid.

**Captain—** a true gentle giant, he is the captain of the ship that Viola and Sebastian are traveling on, as he knew their family well.  A local from Illyria, he is nevertheless well-traveled enough to blend in with more… _ordinary_ locales.  He feels sorry for the predicament his passengers are in, especially Viola, so is more tolerant of their bickering then another captain may otherwise be.

**Parson—** a compassionate fellow, he much prefers doing weddings to doing funerals.  (Who wouldn’t?)  Unfortunately, in Illyria of late, there has been more of the latter than the former, though lately there hasn’t been really much of anything to do beyond ordinary services, and he secretly wishes Olivia will accept Orsino’s suit, if only for a change of pace.

**Musicians—** a band of street performers and friends, these fun-loving girls and boys follow Feste from Olivia to Orsino and back, receiving their fair cut of the jester’s earnings, bust mostly enjoying the music and life in general.

**Officers—** two of ‘Illyria’s finest,’ these two often find themselves without much to do, as the only law in Illyria that actively needs enforcing is the one prohibiting duels, and given the Sir Andrew Aguecheek usually weasels out of his duels before they ever happen, most of their job consists of walking around looking intimidating (hard to do when you uniform doesn’t fit right).  They both long for more excitement, so would take any challenge that comes along quite seriously…if one would _ever_ come around. 

**Valentine and Curio—** two of Orsino’s servants.  Valentine has served him the longest, so is the best acquainted with his moods and the easiest ways to ride them out.  Curio is younger and newer, and a bit taken aback with his boss’s…melodrama. 

**Ladies in Waiting—** Diana’s closest attendants, the three of these are…well, silly.  They enjoy helping Olivia in her girlish pranks, and have a tendency to giggle over and mess with every one of the few handsome faces allowed to cross their lady’s threshold.

* * *

_This is the picture before the pictures, one we do not see with our eyes, but one we form from what we hear: torrential rain splattering against raging waves, unstoppable, howling wind, and the ever-present growl of thunder.  Perhaps we hear the creak of wood or the faintest thrum as wind meets rope, but our first definite assurance that there is indeed, a ship somewhere on this storm-tossed sea is a dreadful creak and crash as the ill-fated vessel is split by nature’s rage._

_In our mind’s eye, we see clear as day the great vessel go down, and we can only wonder who was aboard, what tragic stories will surface with the wreckage when at last the storm abates, what poor unfortunates may have survived, and what they may have lost._

_The sounds fade out, and we are lost in our melancholic musing—how could the sounds of tragedy, painting such a bleak picture, ever be the proper opening to what was promised as a comedy…?_


	2. Chapter 1 (1.1-1.3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (The numbers at the start of each section correspond to the act/scene numbers, so you will notice the order of the first two are inverted—this is based on the production I was privileged to be a part of, as I agree with our director the story flows a little better when you start with the shipwreck.)

~*1.2*~

_This is the first picture: a burly sea captain in a torn and water stained uniform crouches over a small, pitiful form of a young woman, bedraggled, soaked and storm-tossed.  His gruff, bearded face is a picture of concern, a gentleness that contrasts sharply with his intimidating size and rough appearance—red hair in disarray, ruined uniform, and scars that speak of obvious military experience.  The girl’s dress, once well-cared for if not elaborate or expensive, is ripped, saturated, and covered with sand.  Her strawberry-blond hair curls slightly after its wetting, some of it strewn across her soft, pretty face.  Her overall slight frame and delicate appearance contrast her greatly with the sea man._

_The two are on a desolate beach, with no human habitation insight, under a weak, cold sunlight appropriate to our already dismal mood.  A few feet down the beach is a broken trunk, among other shipwreck debris, and even further away huddles a group of other unfortunates—some sailors, some passengers, but all in the same distressed state as the two in the center of our focus._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken and the picture springs to life..._

****

Viola coughed and spluttered, rolling on her side as she began retching, expelling all the last remnants of seawater from her lungs.  The captain rocked back on his heels, relief replacing the worry on his face.  When the girl seemed to have recovered enough, he slipped one large, rough hand behind her back, gently helping her sit up.

Viola sat silent a moment, her gasps gradually settling into a regular breathing rhythm as she took in her surroundings, looking around with wide-open pale-blue eyes which reflected the grey skies and bleak light, her expression a mixture of shock, confusion, and grief.

When at last she could speak, Viola voiced the first question that came to her mind: **“What country is this, friends?”**

**“This is Illyria, lady.”**

The girl shook her head, slowly at first, but with increasing vehemence as she stood, shakily, but refusing the captain’s aid.  **“And what am I supposed to do in Illyria?  My brother—”** Her voice broke a little, and she closed her eyes, but she managed to finish her statement, **“—is in…heaven.”** Her head bowed with grief for a moment as she remembered the last, angry words the siblings had shared.  If those were to be the last things said between them before death separated the inseparable…No, she wouldn’t—she _couldn’t_ —accept that. **“Or, maybe there’s a chance he _didn’t_ drown.”  **Eagerly, with hope approaching desperation, Viola whirled to face the huddled group some distance away.  **“What do you think, sailors?”**

The men glanced at each other, then their captain, unwilling to voice what they all thought.  Their captain took a deep breath, then said, all at once, **“It was a total fluke that you yourself were saved.”**   The moment the words were out of his mouth, the captain regretted it.  His plain-sense sentiment seemed to hit the girl like a hammer blow, and she turned away, fighting madly to keep back her sobs.  He glanced at his few remaining men, who stared back silently, each glad that they hadn’t been the ones to have to give such news, but each privately convinced that he could’ve said it better than his captain.

The officer looked from Viola to the sailors, then back again, and when he next spoke, his voice was gentler, less assured.  **“When our ship was wrecked, and you and a few other survivors were clinging onto our lifeboat, I saw your bother tie himself to a big mast floating in the sea.  For as long as I could see him, he stayed afloat on the waves.”**  
Any experienced sea person could’ve told Viola that didn’t mean much—one couldn’t see far in a storm, and knots tied in wet rope with cold, inexperienced fingers had a dreadful tendency to fail when needed most.  Nevertheless, she seemed to cheer up immensely at the slightest hope, and the tension on that bleak beach was greatly diminished as, for the first time, she smiled.

The captain smiled back, less certain than she, for he knew the hope he’d given her was only a few degrees from a false hope, but he couldn’t stand the look of grief on her delicate face.

A stiff breeze whipped across the beach, causing the sea-soaked girl to shiver in her torn, teal dress.  Gently, the captain led her to the broken trunk, pulling out a thick blanket and laying it across her shaking shoulders.  Viola recognized it, realizing the trunk belonged to her brother, but determined not to go down that road—that way led to tears, and though there would be time enough to grieve later; now she had to make what plans she could.

 **“Do you know this area we’re in?”** Viola looked hopefully at the large man, and was rewarded to see his nod.

 **“Yes ma’am, I know it well.  I was born and raised less than three hours from here.”**   _And it was quite an adventure,_ he thought, but did not say.

Viola nodded, her quick mind at work as she mulled over various possibilities, given her situation, and her family’s fortunes…or lack thereof.  **“Who’s the ruler here?”**   In his better days, her father had known many influential people in many lands, so perhaps…

 **“A duke who is noble in name and character…”**   That much, he _could_ say truthfully.

As if sensing some of the captain’s hesitation, Viola glanced sideways at him.  **“What’s his name?”**

**“Orsino.”**

**“Orsino…I’ve heard my father mention him!”** She grinned at having guessed correctly, then frowned as she remembered the context of her father having brought this acquaintance up… **”When I first heard about him, he was still a bachelor.”**

 **“He’s still a bachelor, or at least he was a month ago, when I left,”** the captain supplied, completely misreading the girl’s thought.  **“But there was a rumor that he was in love with the beautiful Olivia.”**

There was a name her father hadn’t mentioned… **“Who’s she?”**

The man frowned.  He knew little beyond the rumors, but he did his best to supply what he thought likely to be true, given what he had heard.  **“A virtuous young woman, the daughter of a count who died last year.  Her brother had custody of her for a while, but then he died, too.  They say she’s totally sworn off men now, in memory of her brother.  She won’t allow anyone in to see her, not even the duke’s messengers.”**

 _Pity that, her house sounded like a good place to hide, awaiting better fortunes…_ _I need somewhere to think, and my family’s state won’t exactly allow me to go about as I am._ Viola glanced at her brother’s trunk again, then opened it.  Sure enough, at least one of his spare suits was there, and hadn’t been too badly damaged by the storm.  For once, she was glad Sebastian had singularly uniform tastes in his clothing.  _*I won’t be able to pull this off alone, though.*_

Pulling out Sebastian’s jacket, Viola turned on the captain.  **“You seem to be a good person captain, and I believe you have a beautiful mind to go with your good looks and manners.  Please—and I’ll pay you for this—help me conceal my identity so I can look the way I want.  I want to be this duke’s servant.  You’ll introduce me to him as a eunuch.  You won’t be wasting your time, because I really can sing and talk to him about many kinds of music, so he’ll be happy to have me in his service.  Only time will tell what will happen after that—just please keep quiet about what I’m trying to do.”**

The bearded giant looked from the jacket to the girl, face shining with hope, and whispered confidentially, **“I won’t say a word.  You can be a eunuch, but I’ll be mute.  I swear on my life I won’t tell your secret.”**

Viola felt a great weight ease off her shoulders.  **“Thank you.  Show me the way.”**

* * *

~*1.1*~

_This is the second picture: a room of magnificent build is resplendent, the floor thick with oriental rugs, the walls covered with rich tapestries, all in the brightest of colors and most intricate of patterns.  The effect is almost overwhelming, and a tad gaudy, but most definitely impressive.  At a piano on one side of the room sits a street musician, frozen as she waits, presumably for an order from whoever has brought her here.  A couch dominates the center of the room—one on which you can easily picture ancient romans lounging—and behind it stands a well-dressed young man, obviously a high-ranking attendant to whoever own this great house._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken as someone strides in, bringing the scene to life…_

****

Duke Orsino, for it was he, was dressed richly but comfortably in dark colors, with none of the symbols of his rank he would wear if he left his palace.  He marched purposefully to the young woman at the piano, declaring in his deep, almost affected voice: **“If it’s true that music makes people more in love, keep playing.”**

The pianist glanced at Curio, the attendant, who returned her look, but did not move from behind the couch, then began an intricate, pleasant melody as Orsino continued his dissertation.

 **“Give me too much of it, so I’ll get sick of it and stop loving.”** Mentally, he complimented himself on this new idea—everyday he found new things to say and do to show just how good he was at being in love.  He began to run his fingers through his curly blonde hair, when a particular section of the song struck him.  **“Play that part again!  It sounded sad!”**

Startled, the musician paused momentarily, backed up a few bars and began to play again.  She glanced at the Duke who stood a few feet away from the piano, eyes closed, taking it in.  Uncertainly, she played the same section once more, then again.  It was a bit of an odd request, true, but despite his new obsession with love, the duke was known for his volatile temper and fickle moods.

 **“Oh, it sounded like a sweet breeze blowing gently over a bank of violets, taking their scent with it.”** _That was a very good image—I’ll have to remember it._ Orsino leaned his head back, but soon the section began to grate on him, and he barked in quite a different tone from his previous melodrama, **“That’s enough! Stop.  It doesn’t sound as sweet as it did before.”**

The pianist stopped abruptly, sitting uncertainly, not sure of what to do.  She glanced at Curio, but he said nothing, offered her no clue.  Meanwhile, Orsino heaved a sigh and crossed to the couch, flinging himself dramatically upon it.

Curio looked at the Duke, trying to pick his words carefully, a little uncomfortable with the idea of the Duke Orsino as a brooding lover.  **“Do you want to go hunting, my lord?”**

Orsino leaned back so that he could look up at his manservant’s face.  **“Hunting what, Curio?”**

 **“The hart…”** At his lord’s unchanging gaze, the young man added hesitantly, **“the deer?”**

Orsino seized the opportunity for a new image and, still reclining, he began to slip back into the character of the ‘master lover’.  **“That’s what I’m doing—only it’s _my_ heart that’s being hunted.”**  He paused a moment, but saw from the corner of his eye that neither his servant nor the musician seemed to be following his thought, so he decided to spell it out as plainly as his flair for the dramatic would let him.  **“Oh, when I first saw Olivia, it seemed like she made the air around her sweeter and purer.  In that instant I was transformed into a ‘hart,’ and my desire for her has hounded me like a pack of viscous dogs ever since.”**

Before he could continue the analogy, another of his servants came rushing in—Valentine, a tall, blue-eyed, curly-haired young man who had served the duke long enough to know how to tread softly around his temper. 

Orsino sprang upright, crossing quickly to meet his messenger, reading bad news in the man’s unwillingness to meet his lord’s eye.  Nevertheless, the script had to be read through in its entirety—there were forms they had to complete, and perhaps Valentine had gained a since of humor and was kidding him.  _And perhaps the town drunk will join a monastery._ “ **What’s going on? What have you heard from her?”**   The duke praised himself silently for giving no outward clue, in tone or stance, that he knew what answer was coming.

The taller man took a hesitant step back, startled by his lord’s intensity, wishing there was a way out of this cycle—they played this through every day, and while it was an honor to be the most trusted messenger in the duke’s household, but it had certain… _drawbacks_ , given Orsino’s current obsession.  **“I—I’m sorry, but they wouldn’t let me in; but I got the following answer from her handmaid:  Olivia’s not going to show her face for the next seven years—not even to the sky itself.  She’s doing this out of love for her dead brother whom she wants to keep fresh in her memory forever.”** _Just like they told me yesterday…_

Orsino turned away violently, barking at the room in general, instead of to any of the other three specifically.  **“Oh, if she loves her brother this much, think how she’ll love me when I finally win her over and make her forget all her other attachments.”**   He stood, brooding for a moment, distractedly dismissing thee musician with a wave of his hand.  He turned to his two servants, saying flatly, **“Take me to the garden.  I need a beautiful place to sit and think about love.”**

Orsino strode imperiously out, and, behind his back, Curio and Valentine met each other’s gaze for a half-second, rolled their eyes in almost the same instant, then followed him out.

* * *

~*1.3*~

_This is the third picture: moonlight, supplemented by a few lanterns, filters through the windows of another room in a great house—not as richly furnished as the duke’s palace, but more tastefully so, with a single, large rug in the center that matches the wall hangings.  To one side is a chair with a vest thrown over the back and a hat on the seat, and center is a matching chair and small table._

_At the table stands a man in a button-up shirt, brown pants, and once-respectable, now-scuffed shoes.  Truth be told, we can see little more of him than his bald head, for he is bent double, with his head in a porcelain washbasin which stands on the table beside an old wine goblet._

_Standing over him with a ferocious expression and pitcher of water is a young woman dressed like an upper-servant in a noble person’s house.  Her decidedly… unflattering brown-and-blue dress has a high hem, revealing thick black shoes and socks, and the whole ensemble is topped off by a hat that resembles a cream-colored pancake tied in place with a dark brown ribbon.  If it weren’t for the outfit, she’d be a pretty girl, what with her dark hair, pale skin, and hazel eyes._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken as water pours from the pitcher, bringing the scene to life, landing us in the middle of their argument…_

****

Sir Toby gasped and spluttered as the cold water splashed over his head, momentarily relieving his headache, but unfortunately doing little to clear his mind.  With the pitcher empty, Maria began to towel off his head—none to gently, it must be said.  When he finally had breath and space to speak, he demanded, **“What’s wrong with my niece?  Why is she reacting so strangely to her brother’s death?”**

Maria viciously snapped the towel as she began to fold it, glaring at the hung-over knight’s blatant attempt to head off the lecture he knew was coming.  **“For God’s Sake, Sir Toby, you’ve got to come home earlier at night.  My lady, Olivia, your niece, disapproves of your late-night partying.”**   With an almost-audible sigh, Toby sat heavily, trying to causally reach for the half-filled goblet on the table, but Maria saw his movement and hastily moved it out of his reach, even as she continued to scold. **“You need to keep yourself within the limits of order and decency.”**

Having said her piece, Maria turned and stalked over to the other chair, picking up Sir Toby’s hat and vest.  The knight glared in her direction, but not, it must be admitted, as ferociously as possible.  Nevertheless, he felt he had to get the last word in, so, putting his feet on the table with an audible ‘thunk,’ he said belligerently, **“Keep myself?  The only thing I’m keeping myself in is the clothes I’m wearing.  They’re good enough to drink in, and so are these boots.  If they aren’t they can go hang themselves by their own laces.”**

Maria was behind him again, pushing lightly on his legs.  Like a sullen toddler, he removed his shoes from the table, leaning forward as she helped him with the vest, wishing he could shut out her sharp, scolding tone.  _Such a pity, she’s not a bad girl when she’s not being so shrewish…_

 **“You’re going to destroy yourself with all this drinking.  Lady Olivia said so yesterday.”** Then, with a subtle shift in stance and tone, Maria shifted topics as she unceremoniously plunked Sir Toby’s hat down on his head.  **“She also mentioned some stupid knight you brought in one night as a possible husband for her.”** Her contempt for the idea was evident in the incredulous tone that crept into her voice on the word ‘husband’.

Less cross now, feigning confusion, the knight turned to regard the servant.  **“Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?”**

Maria crossed her arms, shooting him a glare that clearly asked ‘who else?’  **“Yes, that’s the one.”**

Hastily scrambling for something positive to say about his fellow knight, all Sir Toby was able to come up with was: **“He’s as tall as any man in Illyria!”**

She had to concede that point, mentally contrasting the awkward, gangly figure of the knight in question with the compact figure of the one before her.  But still…  **“What does his height have to do with anything?”**

Sir Toby grinned roguishly, detecting Maria’s usual sarcasm replacing her pique, and he admitted, **“Why, he has an income of three thousand ducats a year.”**

 **“I’ll bet he’ll spend his whole inheritance in a year.”**   _Especially if you keep convincing him to pay when you go out drinking._  **“He’s a fool and spendthrift.”**

The knight shot to his feet, afraid she might find some way to cut off his supply of free liquor.  **“You shouldn’t speak of him like that!  He—he has all of nature’s best gifts.”**   He managed to keep a straight face, but not sound convincing _or_ convinced.

Choosing to ignore his interruption, Maria continued. **“Moreover, he gets drunk with you every night.”**

She was beginning to slip into ‘shrew mode’ again, and Sir Toby knew he had to act fast, or she might make good on her threats to go to his niece.  **“We only drink toasts to my niece.  I’ll drink to her as long as there’s a hole in my throat and booze in Illyria.  Anyone who refuses to drink to my niece is scum.”** She began to storm past him, but he caught her by the arm, pulling her back to face him, speaking in a more gentle tone, **“Come, girl—”**

Maria began to soften, just a little, and Sir Toby stooped, about to kiss her hand.

**“Sir Toby!”**

The two stepped a part, Maria stalking towards one of the small, casement windows, Sir Toby crossing to the door to greet the new arrival, saying in forced cheer, **“Here comes Sir Andrew!”**

Indeed, it was.  As the knight in question stumbled into the room, he seemed to be all arms and legs, his thin, weather-beaten face plastered with a wide, somewhat dazed smile.  He was dressed, as he usually was, in a magenta suit, black shoes, white shirt, paisley vest, and blue tie, which matched the blue band on the black top hat which covered his sandy-brown hair.  It was clear he fancied himself a dashing figure, but the full effect was simply…silly.

 **“How are you, Sir Toby Belch?”** With that cry, Sir Andrew rushed over to embrace his fellow knight.

Conscious of Maria’s penetrating glare at the back of his neck, Sir Toby forced a small laugh, extricating himself from the…enthusiastic greeting.  _*I thought I ditched him an hour ago…_ “ **Sweet Sir Andrew…”**

As dense as he was, Sir Andrew did catch something in his friend’s manner, and turned to see Maria glaring at the both of them.  Hastily, he tipped his hat to her.  **“And hello to you, my little wench.”**

Sir Toby flinched at the unintended insult, but said nothing, for he could tell form Maria’s lifted chin that she planned to handle it herself.  Her, **“Hello, sir,”** came out in such a sharp, tight tone, that any man with experience around women would know trouble was coming, but Sir Andrew was no such man, and he only smiled.

 **“Chat her up, Sir Andrew, Chat her up.”** Hopefully, if the matter was resolved quickly, he could get on with winning Maria over to the idea of his late-night revels.

**“What?”**

**“This is my niece’s maid…”**

Realization dawned on Sir Andrew’s face, and he tipped his hat to Maria once more.  **“My dear Miss Chat-Her-Up, I look forward to getting to know you better.”**

It is actually quite hard to maintain a high-level of anger when confronted with such blatant idiocy, and the girl found herself settling around the level of contempt, evident in her patronizing tone as she replied, **“My name is Maria, sir.”**

 **“Oh.”**   The knight deflated a little, processing this, then brightened, saying, **“Miss Maria Chat-Her-Up—”**

With a sinking feeling of ‘this could conceivably go on forever,’ Sir Toby stepped in to intervene.  **“No, you’ve got it wrong.  When I said ‘chat her up,’ I wasn’t saying her name.  I was telling you to go after her, woo her, confront her.”**

 **“Good heavens!”**  The taller knight turned to his companion, his face a picture of disbelief.  **“I’d never do that with people watching!  Is that really what you meant?”**

Maria rolled her eyes, gathered up pitcher, washbasin, and towel, calling out as she left, **“Goodbye, gentlemen.”**

At her almost-mocking tone on ‘gentlemen,’ Sir Andrew seemed to deflate even further.  His companion turned to him, handing him the goblet of wine Maria had left behind in her hasty exit.  **“Sir, you need a drink.  When has anyone ever put you down like that?”**

 **“Never.  I’ve only been that far down when I’ve drunk myself under the table.”** He stared at the goblet in his hands as if seeing it for the first time.  He placed it back on the small table with a heavy sigh, as he complained, **“Sometimes, I think I’m no smarter than average.  I eat a lot of red meat, and maybe that makes me stupid.”**

Sir Toby concealed a small laugh in a cough, and he replied with a smile he couldn’t hide, **“Absolutely.”**

 **“If I really believed that, I’d give up red meat totally.”**   The tone of finality used in this declaration was decidedly lessened by the conditional phrasing.  **“By the way, I’m going home tomorrow, Sir Toby.”**

This time, there was no acting—the alarm in Sir Toby’s voice was genuine.  After all, he’d gotten used to Sir Andrew had been paying for the drinks.  **“Pourquoi, my friend?”**

 **“Sir Toby, your niece is refusing to see anyone,”** Sir Andrew began, turning a face made almost laughable by an expression of dejection and pain, **“and even if she saw me, ten to one she’d want nothing to do with me.  That duke who lives nearby is courting her.** ”

Thinking quickly, Sir Toby began spinning reassurance, based on what he’d told the foolish fellow when he’d first duped him into coming there.  **“She’s not interested in the duke.  She doesn’t want to marry anyone of higher social rank than her; I’ve heard her say that.  So cheer up, there’s still hope for you, man.”**

Sir Toby waited as his victim considered carefully, face screwed up in the effort of thinking—an effort Sir Toby was of the private opinion did _not_ come naturally to the other knight.

 **“All right, I’ll stay another month.”** With that decided, Sir Andrew’s mood improved drastically and suddenly.  **“Ah, I’m an odd kind of guy.  Sometimes all I want to do is see plays and go out dancing.”**

 **“How good are you at those fast dances?”**   Sir Toby asked, sensing an opportunity for a laugh.

Eagerly, the other knight replied, **“Believe me, I can cut a caper.”**

He proceeded to demonstrate…but it must be admitted, it looked less like a dance, and more like an imitation of what would happen if someone crossed a clumsy, long-legged cat with a frog, then got the resulting creature drunk.  It was not a sight for the faint at heart, or the dance enthusiast.

Sir Toby only laughed, declaring, **“Why do you keep these talents behind a curtain?  Why don’t you go off to church dancing one way, and come home dancing another way?”**

So saying, he seized the arm of his drinking companion, and the two attempted something that perhaps vaguely resembled a dance, roaring out an off-key, bass version of a nonsense tune that any sane and sober person would be hard pressed to deem a ‘song’.  They broke apart, and Sir Toby continued.

**“You’re a born dancer—look how shapely your legs are!”**

**“That’s true.”** So saying, he lifted one up to demonstrate, nearly kicking Sir Toby in the chest, and the other knight found himself holding the offending limb.  **“They’re strong, and they look pretty good in brown tights.”** With a cough and a pained expression, Sir Toby dropped the leg he was holding, and Sir Andrew stumbled until he got his balance back.  **“Should we throw a little dance party?”**

 **“Why not?”** This time, though, Sir Toby did not join in, and observed the drunk-frog-cat routine again, laughing as he egged Sir Andrew on.  **“Let me see you dance.  Ha, higher!  Ha-ha!  Excellent!”**

The foolish fellow dashed out, and Sir Toby dropped his act, shaking his head.  As if to remind himself why he put up with such antics, he seized the goblet, drained it in a gulp, and stumbled out after Sir Andrew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Here we have the first half of Act I (the second half comes next week). Those of you familiar with the play will notice that not all lines are included—again, this is based on the production I was in and the abbreviated version of the script we had to use for time’s sake. No scenes were omitted, but most scenes were at least trimmed in some form or other. Still, the integrity of the play was not and will not be compromised.


	3. Chapter 2 (1.4-1.5)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter not only wraps up Act I, but introduces my all-time favorite character in the show. (And no, before you ask—it’s not the character I played. I played my second-favorite character, as my director had an actor better suited to the part.)

~*1.4*~

_This is the fourth picture: We are once more in the Dukes palace, the same room as before, but this time the room is empty—no one at attention, no one at the piano, and no duke._

_As soon as we have recognized our surroundings, the picture springs to life as various attendants on the Duke enter..._

****

Valentine watched as Curio and two of the newer servants peeled off to one corner, but quickly returned his attention to the small-ish lad standing beside him, immaculate in a white suit that was, perhaps, just a _tad_ too big for him, saying, **“If the Duke keeps treating you so well, Cesario, you’ll go far.  He’s only known you for three days, but he’s already treating you like a close friend.”**

Viola (for it was she) was about to reply, when she noticed someone in the hall.  Stepping to one side of the door, she informed Valentine, **“Here comes the Duke, now.”**

Orsino plowed into the room, and every servant was instantly on their guard—this was not one of his better moods.  Without a glance at the two in the doorway, Orsino turned on the little cluster near the piano, demanding brusquely, **“Has anyone seen Cesario?”**

 **“I’m right here, my lord, at your service,”** Viola replied brightly, stepping forward a little.

The Duke showed little to no embarrassment over having brushed right past the very person he’d been seeking.  Still addressing the cluster by the piano, he barked, **“We’ll need some privacy for a little while.”** Quickly, the other servants retreated a little further away, Valentine crossing to join them.

Ignoring their muted conversation, Orsino began speaking in an urgent half-whisper to ‘Cesario’.  **“Cesario, I want a word with you.  You know everything about me; I’ve told you all the secrets of my soul.  So, please, got to her house; if they don’t let you in, plant yourself outside her door and tell them you won’t leave until they let you see her.”**

It took all of Viola’s effort for her not to look at Valentine.  The older servant had taken her under his wing, and in the three days she’d been at the duke’s court, whenever she wasn’t required to attend the duke, she’d had ample opportunity to hear the man tell of his many trips to Olivia’s house—and his reception.

**“But my lord, I’m sure that if she’s as depressed as people say, she’ll never let me in.”**

Orsino merely waved his hand, certain that _this_ time, he’d hit on the infallible plan for his love-suit.  Surely this lad had more of a backbone that the easily cowed Valentine.  **“Be loud and obnoxious.  Do whatever it takes—just get the job done!”**

Resigning herself to the fact that she couldn’t get out of it, Viola put her quick mind to the task of assembling her strategy.  **“Well, alright, let’s say—hypothetically—that I do get a chance to speak with her, my lord.  What do I do then?”**

 **“Tell her how passionately I love her!”** As Orsino began to get caught up in his speech, he _seemed_ to forget that there was anyone else in the room—but, of course, he was aware of them the whole time.  What is a performance without an audience, after all?  **“Overwhelm her with examples of how faithful I am!  The best thing would be to act out my feelings for her—she’ll pay more attention to a young guy like you than to an older, more serious man.”**

Viola saw Valentine from the corner of her eye, hanging his head, and she said, partly to console him, **“I don’t think so my, lord.”**

 **“My boy, it’s true!  Anyone who says you’re a man must not notice how young you are.”**  The young servant obviously not convinced, Orsino looked closer, speaking softly for once, trying to find the right words and images to convince ‘Cesario.’  **“Your lips are as smooth and red as the goddess Diana’s.  Your soft voice is like a young girl’s—high and clear—and the rest of you is pretty feminine, too.  I _know_** **you’re the right person for this job.”**   Suddenly, he became aware of the silence of the group behind him.  He took a step back, returning to his gruff manner as he snapped at them.  **“Two or three of you go along with him—or you can all go if you like.  I’m most comfortable when I’m alone.”**   Knowing they had no true choice, the servants began to file out.  Orsino stopped ‘Cesario’ with a hand on his arm, whispering, **“if you succeed at this assignment, I’ll reward you well.  My whole fortune will be yours.”**

As he left by another door to his private chambers, Viola, now alone, watched him with a sad expression, calling after him, **“I’ll do my best to make this lady love you.”**   Then, quietly, she admitted to herself with a wry half-smile: **“But what a tough task:** **I have to go matchmaking for the man I want to marry myself!”**

Shaking her head at her impossible situation, she turned to leave, intent to do her job as well as she could—if she couldn’t be happy, perhaps this Duke could be.

* * *

~*1.5*~

_This is the fifth picture: A room we have not been in before is the setting, with a chair to our left and long couch to our right.  The couch is similar to the one in the Duke’s palace, but upholstered differently.  This room is furnished richly but tastefully, obviously with a woman’s touch, so we assume (correctly) that we are once more in Olivia’s house._

_This impression is further driven home by the two figures standing in the center of our focus, as if they’d just walked through the door behind them.  One, a tall, blue-eyed young man with curly black hair and a neat, if much-patched suit, is unfamiliar to us, but we recognize the other by her face, dress, and glare—it is Maria, the serving maid we’d seen before.  She holds the young man’s bowler hat in her hand, regarding him as one would a younger sibling who’s in trouble yet again, but who will never admit to remorse.  There is, perhaps, some concern there, too…_

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken and the picture springs to life as Maria begins to speak…_

****

**“No.  Tell me where you have been—Lady Olivia will have you executed for not showing up!”**

Feste, the jester, bestowed Maria with a charming smile as he seized his hat back from her, saying with an affected air of carelessness: **“So let her execute me.  Anyone who’s executed doesn’t have to be afraid of anything he sees.”**   Having given his reply, he swept his hat back on to his head, smirking and silently daring her to retort.

Maria, however, was too preoccupied with worry to join in their usual war of words—would he never take Lady Olivia seriously?  **“You speak boldly for a fool.”**

Before she could continue with her well-meaning but unwelcome lecture, Feste interrupted her.  **“Those of us who were meant to be fools should do what they do best.”**

Maria shook her head, still unable, even after all these years, to comprehend his ever-glib attitude.  **“But still, she’s going to kill you for being so long gone!”**

**“Sometimes getting killed is a good way to avoid getting married!”**

Maria glared at his retort.  It was true, he was like a little brother to her—sometimes in all the most annoying of ways.   **“Shut up, you troublemaker.”**   Not a very clever retort, but a heartfelt one, at least.  She turned to leave, but one glance into the hall confirmed her fears.  She rushed back to Feste, all pretense at anger gone, replaced with only concern.  **“Here comes my lady.  If you know what’s good for you, you’ll think up some good excuse for being away so long.”**

For a second, Feste’s expression matched hers—their eyes twin mirrors of fear over how the coming encounter would end, then Maria rushed out, turning to go the opposite way of the approaching party—towards the main entrance of the house.  She couldn’t bear to watch what was coming next.

Turning his gaze heavenward, Feste let his guard slip for a second longer, muttering a fervent prayer, but unable to restrain a joke from slipping out, despite his fear.  **“Please let me think of something funny to say now!  Smart people who think they’re witty often turn out to be fools, but I know I’m not witty, so I might pass for smart.”**  Prayer finished, the jester in plain-clothes spread his hands, addressing an imaginary, invisible audience: **“A witty fool’s better than a foolish wit!”**

Almost before the ‘fool’ had finished speaking, a train of people swept into the room.  The first to enter was Olivia, lady of the house.  She was not wearing veil or hat, so one could clearly see her admittedly beautiful face framed by thick, dark hair.  Her dress, while black, was quite fashionable, and not at all what one would expect a sister in deep mourning for a dearly beloved brother to wear.  She was followed by her three ladies-in-waiting, each dressed exactly like Olivia, who promptly took their places around the room, as if sensing the coming confrontation.  One of the male servants, Fabian, stood to one side of the door, dark brown eyes uneasy as the last figure entered.  It was Malvolio, the head steward, imposing in somber black suit and black top hat set atop his curly blonde hair.

Both Fabian and Malvolio noticed Feste, the former flashing him a look of sympathy, the latter smirking triumphantly.  He, however, paid neither any attention, sweeping off his hat as he bowed to Olivia, declaring loudly and boldly, **“Greetings to you, madam!”**

Olivia glanced over her shoulder at the grinning fellow, then turned away dismissively, saying in a cold tone to the two by the door, **“Get that fool out of here.”**

Before either could move, Feste turned to them.   **“Didn’t you hear her, guys?  Get the lady out of here.”**

Fabian looked bewildered; Malvolio, outraged; and Olivia turned imperiously to the grinning Feste.  **“Oh, go away: you’re a boring fool.  I don’t want to have anything with you anymore.”**

Feste turned once more to Fabian and Malvolio, as if urging lazy servants to do their job. **“The lady gave orders to take away the fool, so I’m telling you again: take her away.”**

 **“I told them to take _you_** **away.”**   Olivia’s gaze had become suspicious, as if trying to figure out the fool’s joke in spite of herself.

**“Oh, what a big mistake!  Please, let me prove you’re the fool.”**

**“Can you do that?”**

Sensing a softening in Olivia’s manner, Feste seized his opportunity.  He took her hand, turning her like a dance partner would, until she arrived at the couch, where he let her sit, then declared, **“Easily, madam.”**

For the first time, Olivia returned the jester’s smile, but with a hint of smugness as she challenged him: **“Then go ahead and prove it.”**

 **“I’ll have to ask you some questions, madam,”** Feste warned.

With a small shrug, Olivia replied, **“I’m listening to you only because I have nothing better to do.”**

Feste took a second to collect his thoughts as he strode to the center of the room.  He was aware of the servants watching as well as their mistress, and he reveled in their attention, now certain he knew how to get back in Olivia’s good graces.  He turned his attention back to the lady on the couch, asking in the manner of a lawyer cross-examining a witness, **“My dear madam, why are you in mourning?”**

**“My dear fool, because my brother died.”**

Feste nodded, digesting Olivia’s reply and perplexed tone, then, as if making a grand proclamation to the invisible jury, he declared: **“I think his soul’s in hell, my lady.”**

The mood in the room instantly turned dangerous.  All the servants looked at each other in frightened surprise as Olivia leaped to her feet, yelling at the grinning Feste, **“I know his soul’s in heaven, fool!”**

Feste turned to the outraged lady, saying in a tone of lighthearted logic, **“Then you’re a fool for being sad that your brother’s soul is in heaven.”**  Turning back to Fabian and Malvolio, Feste bowed.  **“Take away this fool, gentlemen.”**

Olivia’s ill-temper instantly evaporated as she laughed; a merry, musical laugh it was.  Recognizing the ‘all-clear signal,’ Feste made an elegant bow, bending to kiss her hand.  Olivia turned to her steward, asking in a warm tone, **“What do you think of this fool, Malvolio?  Isn’t he getting funnier?”**

Malvolio glared at the bowing jester, then sneered as he responded in a dismissive, condescending tone: **“Yes, and he’ll keep getting funnier until he dies.  Old age always makes people act funny—even wise people, but fools more than anybody.”**

All at once, the focus of the room shifted.  No sooner had the drama featuring Olivia and Feste been peacefully resolved then the next chapter in the rivalry between the steward and the jester opened.

Feste sprung upright, with an elated expression on his face as he crossed swiftly to the uptight steward, throwing his arm about Malvolio’s shoulders and leading him a few steps closer to Olivia, so that she might hear better.  **“I hope _you_** **go senile soon, sir, so you can become a more foolish fool!  Sir Toby would bet a fortune that I’m not smart, but he wouldn’t bet two cents that you’re not a fool.”**   This seemingly glib retort had been carefully calculated to get under Malvolio’s skin.  It seemed the one person he detested more than Feste was Olivia’s drunk uncle, and with both firmly under the protection of the lady of the house, he was powerless to remove either irritant.

Olivia was no stranger to the dislike between Malvolio and Feste, but she always enjoyed watching the two of them go at it—Feste usually got the last word in, but the steward often gave as good as he got.  Subtly egging them on, she asked sweetly, **“What do you say to that, Malvolio?”**

Stiffly, the steward removed Feste’s arm from about his shoulders.  He knew he could not out rightly threaten the fool, but he could upset him, and perhaps undermine his good standing with Olivia.   **“I’m surprised, my lady, that you enjoy the company of this stupid troublemaker.”**

 **“Malvolio, something has damaged your good taste.”**   Olivia’s tone was a trace colder, but still, on the whole, relaxed and friendly.  Ordinarily, she would not have intervened until she felt the battle had reached its end, but she felt Malvolio had insulted her choices by questioning them, and that was one thing she could not stand for—it must be corrected.  She crossed to them, taking Feste’s hand and leading him to the couch as she spoke.  **“A court jester isn’t really criticizing people, even if he does nothing but make fun of them all day long.”**

Sensing an opportunity to needle his rival further, Feste sat boldly as if he were master and Olivia the servant.  She seemed to sense his intent, and adopted his kneeling stance from earlier, the two conspirators exchanging a little smile before Feste bravely and loudly declared: **“You speak so highly of fools!  I hope the god of deception rewards you by making you a wonderful liar.”**

The other servants were barely restraining smiles by this point, especially when they saw that Malvolio’s normally pale complexion was almost purple with rage. 

Before either side could escalate once more, Maria re-entered, bobbing a small curtsey as she informed Olivia, **“Madam, there’s a young gentleman at the gate who really wants to speak with you.”**

Former friendly tone completely replaced with exasperation, Olivia asked, **“Was he sent by the Duke?”**

Maria met her lady’s disgusted expression with a sympathetic one—would Duke Orsino never learn?  **“I don’t know madam.  He’s a good-looking young man, and there are a lot of people with him.”**

 _Well then, he’s certainly not Orsino’s usual courier, whoever he is._ **“Who’s talking to him now?”**

Maria winced, torn between a desire to defend a certain knight, and knowing exactly what he was now like.  The other servants also reacted with pained expressions as she answered, **“Sir Toby, madam—your relative.”**

**“Send Toby away, please!  He talks nothing but nonsense.”**

Maria bobbed a small curtsy, then cleared her throat meaningfully at the ladies-in-waiting who rose to follow quite reluctantly.  She cast a pleading look to Fabian who nodded once, and followed the four women out.  Sometimes, there was no telling how many people were needed to get Sir Toby to leave somewhere he wished to stay, and go somewhere he did not wish to be. 

Olivia rose, leaving Feste on the couch, and crossed to her steward.  The time for jokes was now over, now she had to be the lady of the house.  **“Go out and talk to this visitor, Malvolio.  If he’s got a message from the Duke, tell him I’m sick, or not at home.  Tell him anything you want, as long as you make him go away.”**

Malvolio nodded stiffly and turned on his heel.  Feste watched him go, privately convinced the steward wouldn’t succeed—he wasn’t the most creative person out there, in the jester’s opinion.  But Feste was distracted as he spotted someone approaching in the hall.  Well, sort of approaching.  At that stumbling, meandering pace, it might take him awhile to get there…

**“Here comes one of your relatives who’s pretty weak in the head.”**

Olivia turned, and spotted her uncle and his unsteady gait.  Sighing deeply, she hung her head.   **“I swear, he’s half-drunk already.”**   The knight in question finally stumbled into the room and stood for a second, blinking in dazed confusion.  Olivia tried to smile at him, but it was forced and half-hearted.  She couldn’t believe how far he’d fallen.  **“Who’s at the gate, uncle?”**

 **“A gentlemen,”** was the slightly slurred response.

She regarded him with no small amount of exasperation.  **“A gentleman? _What_** **gentleman?”**

As if he had not heard his niece, Sir Toby turned, catching sight of Feste for the first time.  With a delighted cry, he crossed to the jester, catching him in a hug and pounding his back.   **“Why, here’s a gentleman!  How’s it going, fool?”**

 **“Good Sir Toby…”** Feste could see Olivia glaring at him over her uncle’s shoulder, and he did his best to extricate himself from the knight’s embrace.  If she found out he almost doubled his income by entertaining and manipulating her uncle and his drinking companion when they were the furthest they could be from sober…Well, that would make this morning’s brush with her disfavor look mild in comparison.

Fortunately for the fool, the lady of the house was more concerned with Sir Toby at the moment.   **“Uncle, uncle—how are you already so brain-dead this early in the day?”**

**“Brain dead?  Nonsense!  I defy brain-death.  I told you, someone’s at the gate.”**

Heartened by this return to the original topic of conversation, Olivia tried again.   **“Yes, but who is he?”**

Her relief was short-lived, as her uncle revealed just what level of interest he had in the proceedings.  As he stumbled out of the room, he called back over his shoulder, **“Let him be the devil if he wants to—I don’t care.”**

Olivia shook her head, watching him leave, declaring to Feste, **“He’s in the third degree of drunkenness—he’s drowned.  Go take care of him.”**

Feste swept his hat off as he bowed, saying glibly, **“He’s still only in the crazy phase.  The fool will go take care of the madman.”**   He stood up straight and followed the weaving knight out, smiling in anticipation of the gold that would soon be lining his pockets.  It was an old game, but one he knew how to play like a pro.

Olivia sat on the bench again, shaking he head at her uncle’s state, when Malvolio re-entered, looking quite put-out.  Then again, he pretty much _always_ looked like that.

**“Madam, that young man out there says he’s got to speak to you.  I told him you were sick.  He claimed he knew that, and that’s why he’s come to speak to you.  I told him you were asleep.  He claimed to know that already, too, and said that’s the reason he’s come to speak to you.  What can I say to him, lady?  He’s got an answer for everything!”**

Olivia shook her head, disappointed that Malvolio took her so literally, when she’d been telling him to figure it out.   _At least he didn’t tell the visitor I wasn’t home after he told him I was asleep._ **“Tell him he’s not going to speak with me.”**   She wondered why Malvolio found this so complicated a missive to deliver—Maria had become adept at dismissing the other fellow in a few second’s time.

“ **I told him that!  He says he’ll stand at your door like a sign post or a bench until he speaks to you**

 _Orsino sent someone with a spine?  This could be fun…or at least interesting._ **“What kind of man is he?”**

Malvolio stared as his mistress, not quite comprehending the question, and it showed in his perplexed tone.  **“Just a man, like any other.”**

Olivia cast him an annoyed glance speaking slowly, as if that would help him catch her meaning.   **“But what’s he like?”**

 **“He’s very rude.  He _insists_** **he’ll speak with you whether you want him to or not.”**

Sensing her steward was getting hung up on this point, Olivia tried to edge him off of that topic.  **“What does he look like?  How old is he?”**   _In other words—is it worth it?_

Malvolio began to answer then stopped, as if picturing the newcomer, and struggling to describe him.  **“Not old enough to be a man, but not young enough to be a boy.  He looks like he just stopped breastfeeding,”** he finally managed.

 _Just the right age.  He’s just getting confident, so messing with his head will have a more noticeable effect.  Ah, well, this could_ _be entertaining._    **“Show him in.”**   At Malvolio’s disbelieving, almost disrespectful **“What?”** Olivia snapped, **“Call in my ladies-in-waiting.”**

Accepting that he could not change her mind, but still disapproving of the whole enterprise, Malvolio reluctantly stalked into the hall, calling, **“Ladies!  Our mistress wants you.”**   Then, without a backward glance at the ‘lesser servants,’ he strode to the gate to complete his mission.  Like it or not, for now he was a servant, and had to obey the whims of this…mere girl.

 **“Give me my veil.  Come, put it over my face.”**  The three ladies-in-waiting became very busy.  One retrieved four identical hats with black veils, passing them around.  As they put them on each other and her, Olivia continued, though she was sure the girls had already guessed, **“We’re going to here Orsino’s pleas again.”**

Maria stood in the doorway, blocking it until all was ready.  Four women dressed exactly alike, faces concealed beneath thick veils, now seated themselves about the room, facing the door.  The stage was set for the victim to enter.  Maria didn’t exactly approve (she thought it was a silly game, personally) but had to admit it _was_ fun to watch if she pictured _certain_ people in the victim’s place.  Now that everyone was in place, she opened the door, and beckoned to the small figure standing in the hallway, standing to one side to let him pass.

Viola strode confidently into the room, then stopped, turning in a small circle as she took in the scene.  She resisted the strong urge to look back at Maria for a clue.  _So, this is the lady’s game?  She makes sport of poor messengers.  One has to admit though, this is exactly the way to unsettle someone.  He wouldn’t know whom he was to speak to, he doesn’t know how old the people facing him are, or what they look like, so his already unsettled mind conjures up scornful, beautiful ladies, and he is caught in a cycle of his own fears.  Very clever lady, very clever._

Pushing her own nerves down, Viola addressed all four at once.  **“Which of you is the lady of the house?”**   _Just one clue—that’s all I need.  Just one hint._

Eagerly, one of the seated figures raised her hand, saying quickly, “ **You can speak to me, I represent her.  What do you want?”**

_That voice sounds rather upper-class.  Well, it’s as good a hint as any._

Viola strode over to the chair and its occupant.  **“What stunning, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty—”** Suddenly, uncertainty set in, and Viola turned to a different figure on the opposite side of the room.  **“Please, tell me if she’s the lady of the house, because I’ve never seen her.”**   The veiled girl made no response, but was that the flash of teeth in a teasing grin Viola could barely detect?  In an attempt to elicit sympathy—and perhaps aid—she went on, almost apologetically, **“I’d hate to waste my speech on the wrong person, because it’s very well written, and I spent a lot of time and energy memorizing it.”**

When all four of the ladies giggled, the sound seemed to emanate from the entire room at once—definitely not a thought to set one at ease.  But Viola forged bravely ahead, doing her best to seem only bewildered and amused, but not scared.  **“Beautiful ladies, please don’t treat me badly.  I’m very sensitive, and even the smallest bit or rudeness hurts my feelings.”**

This first figure to speak now asked, “ **Where do you come from, sir?”**

Viola did her best to ignore the slight mocking tone on ‘sir’, declaring, **“I’m sorry, but I memorized what I’m supposed to say, and that question isn’t part of the speech I learned.”**

 **“Are you an actor?”** the same person asked again.

 **“No, madam.  But I swear: I’m not the person I’m playing.”**   _A truer word I never spoke._  Given the fact that none of the others had said anything, Viola was fairly certain that she was indeed talking to Olivia.  Still, one had to be certain… **“Are you the lady of the house?”**

Something in this boy’s tone—dead serious, no begging, no impatience, just insistence—killed Olivia’s eagerness for this part of the game.  Perhaps a different tactic would get to him.  For now, round one went to the visitor.  **“I am, unless I somehow stole this role.”**

Viola suppressed a small smile of triumph, but said only, **“I’ll get on with my speech praising you, and then I’ll get to the point.”**

 **“Get to the point now—I’ll let you get away with skipping the praise!”**   _After all, it doesn’t pay to seem too interested in flattery…even if it is satisfying._

Grateful that she wouldn’t have to think of how to improve an admittedly cheesy bit of writing Orsino had pretend to her, Viola feigned dismay.  **“That’s too bad, because I spent a long time memorizing it, and it’s poetic.”**

 **“That means it’s more likely to be fake.  Please, keep it to yourself.”**   Olivia heard, but did not acknowledge Maria’s snort of derisive agreement—a reaction she often seemed to have if she heard her mistress remarking disparagingly on anything romantic.  But Olivia kept her attention focused on the small figure in the white suit in front of her, saying coldly, **“If you’re just insane, than get out of here.  If you’re in your right mind get to the point.”**

Maria recognized her cue, even without Olivia’s pointed nod.   **“Ready to set sail, sir?  The door’s right here.”**   She was confident that most of the starch had been knocked out of their visitor.

But Viola was just getting started.  Now that she knew where things stood, or at least, who she was speaking to, she could deal with (likely feigned) disinterest.  Turning to the figure by the door, she smiled, responding glibly, **“No, this boat’s docking here a bit longer, little sailor.”** Viola turned, missing the glare her response had elicited from the serving-maid.  Instead, her attention was focused on the one who’d identified herself as Olivia.  **“My lady, I have a message to deliver.”**

Olivia sniffed dismissively, saying, **“It must be message about something horrible, since you deliver it so rudely.  Tell me what it’s about.”**

 **“That’s only for you to know.”**  Seeing her hostess was unwilling to dismiss the other listeners, Viola rushed to assure her, **“I’m not bringing any declarations of war; I’m coming in peace.”**

Olivia’s tone left little doubt as to how absurd she found this comment.  **“But you began so rudely!  Who are you?  What do you want?”**

Despite the rude tone, Viola detected growing interest, and celebrated her small victory.  **“If I seemed rude, it’s because of how badly I was treated when I got here.  Who I am and what I want are a secret, sacred, just for you.  It’s not for anyone else to hear.”**

 _My, my, the boy has a brain, and he actually uses it to think for himself—I’m certain Orsino couldn’t ever come up with something like that.  He may actually be worth hearing out._ **“Everyone, please leave us alone for a moment.  I’ve got a ‘sacred’ secret to hear.”**

The ladies in waiting rose, bobbed a curtsy, then followed Maria out, leaving their mistress alone with the mysterious stranger.

Olivia watched them go, then turned back to the boy.  **“Now sir, what’s this holy secret you wanted to tell me?”**

Taking a deep breath, Viola began the pre-written missive from the duke.  **“Most sweet lady—”**

**“Oh, ‘sweet!’  It sounds like a nice and gentle kind of faith.  Where’s the passage of scripture you’re basing your sermon on?”**

Viola knew then that what the Duke had written would get nowhere with this lady—only playing her at her own game would get her attention.  Accordingly, she forsook her text and began to extemporize.  **“In Orsino’s heart.”**

 **“In his heart?”** Olivia began to chuckle.  Not such a clever response as she thought he’d give, but she might as well see how long she could keep this game going.  **“In what chapter and verse of his heart?”**

 **“The table of contents say it’s in the first chapter and verse of his heart,”** was the immediate response given without hesitation.

Olivia sniffed dismissively, but couldn’t suppress a smile as she replied, **“Oh, I’ve read that.  That’s not holy—it’s heresy!  Do you have anything else to say?”**

Viola regarded Olivia with a serious, penetrating gaze.  _She’s remarkably light-hearted for someone grieving over her brother’s death—I should know.  My cheer is forced, but if I’m any judge of people, hers isn’t.  One way to test this, I suppose._ In a different tone then any she’d previously use, Viola asked, **“Madam, please let me see your face.”**

 **“Has your lord given you any orders to negotiate with my face?  I don’t think so.  You’re overstepping your bounds now.”**   But then, just to see the effect it would have, she conceded.  **“But I’ll open the curtain and let you see the picture.  Look sir, is it not well done?”** So saying, she removed the hat, veil and all, standing up, and bestowing her visitor with a dazzling smile.

Viola felt her heart sink. _Small wonder Orsino is so caught up with her—how could I compete even if I wasn’t disguised as a man?_ In spite of herself, an honest, awed compliment was drawn from her lips.  **“It was done excellently—if it’s all-natural, the way God made it.”**

Olivia tossed her head proudly, reveling in the admiration in the lad’s voice.  **“Oh, it’s all-natural, sir.  Wind and rain can’t wash it off.”**

Still shaken by her rival’s appearance, Viola continued: **“That’s true beauty!  Mother nature herself painted your skin so white and your lips so red—”** Viola cut herself off and, with herculean effort, got herself back under control, returning to an almost scolding tone, though still with a trace of awe.  **“My lady, you’d be the cruelest woman alive if you let your beauty die with you, with no children to inherit your good looks for future generations to enjoy.”**

Thinking her visitor meant to begin a different word game, Olivia took the new image and ran with it.  **“Oh, I’d never be that cruel.  I’ll definitely do as you say and leave my beauty for the rest of the world to enjoy.  I’ll write out a detailed inventory of my beauty and label every part in my will.  For example— _item:_** **two lips, ordinary red. _Item:_** **two grey eyes, with lids on them. _Item:_ one neck, one chin, and so on.”**  The young man didn’t rise to the challenge, and Olivia felt slightly cheated.  **“Anyway, were you sent her just to tell me I’m beautiful?”**

Viola tried her best to mask the growing disgust she felt, keeping her face blank as she shook her head.  She’d almost been able to give Olivia the grudging respect due to a worthy rival—but this was no mere romantic opponent; she was someone who dabbled in the game purposefully to make other people feel rotten, to make them miserable. _And oh, how good at it you are!_ **“I see what you’re like.  You’re proud.”**   Then, as if the concession had been forcibly drawn from her, she added, **“But you’d still be gorgeous even if you were as proud as the devil.”**

Viola thought of her new employer.  Perhaps he was more than a bit melodramatic, but there was something sincere beneath it all, a kind of loneliness he’d decided that only this lady could heal.  She let some scolding come into her tone as she concluded her miniature tirade.  **“My lord loves you.  You should return a love as deep as his, even if you’re the most beautiful woman in the world.”**

Annoyed that Duke Orsino had somehow worked his way back into the conversation, Olivia almost snapped out the question, **“How does he love me?”**

 **“He adores you!  He cries and groans and sighs!”**   It was one of those questions that could be answered both dramatically and honestly, at least.

 **“Your lord knows what I think: I can’t love him!”**   Perhaps that was too harsh, that might stop the suit entirely, you always had to give him something to keep him coming back, something that his love-sick mind could twist into a sign of favor.  **“I’m…sure he’s a nice man.  I know he’s noble, rich, young, and has a fine reputation.  People say he’s generous, well-educated, and brave, and he _is_** **very attractive.”** _Good, good.  Now, go back to the old tune.  Let’s see what Orsino makes of_   _this! _**“But I just can’t love him.  He should have resigned himself to that a long time ago.”**

 **“If I loved you as passionately as my master does—”** _…Or as much as I’m starting to love him…_  **“and suffered like he does, your rejection would make no sense to me, I wouldn’t understand it.”**

Was that reproach she detected in this arrogant fellow’s voice?  Not to be tolerated!  Time to put him on the spot: **“What would you do about it?”**

Viola did not answer right away, but took a moment to think of what she would do to get _someone_ to notice her, if it was in her place to do so.  She began to speak slowly at first, but with more and more passion as her speech went on.  **“I’d build myself a sad little cabin near your house, where my soul’s imprisoned.  From that cabin I’d call out to my soul.  I’d write sad songs about unrequited love and sing them loudly in the middle of the night.  I’d shout your name to the hills and make the air echo with your name: ‘Olivia!’  Oh, you wouldn’t be able to go anywhere without hearing me until you felt sorry for me.”**

Olivia stared at this enigmatic young man, a smile spreading slowly across her face.  Something in his speech had gone straight through her—finally, a man who knew exactly how she wanted to be wooed!  This fellow seemed to understand and respect her in a way no one else had before…She struggled to find her voice, finally gasping out: **“Not bad!  You might accomplish something.  Who are your parents?”**

Viola was instantly back on her guard, aware of the consequences if her lie came out.  In a stiff manner, body and voice, she replied, **“I was born to a higher position than I’ve got now, but I’m still fairly high-ranking.  I’m a gentleman.”**

 **“Go back to your lord—I can’t love him; tell him not to send anymore messengers.”**  It’d taken a herculean effort to say just that sentence in her old, cold tone, but Olivia let it slip as she added, **“Unless you feel like coming back to tell me how he took the bad news.  Goodbye.  Thanks for your trouble.”**   She pulled a coin out from her sleeve and handed it, saying to him sincerely, **“Here’s some money for you.”**

Viola’s face was stony as she slapped away the proffered coin, snapping: **“I’m not a paid messenger, my lady.  Keep your money.  It’s my master who’s not getting the reward he deserves, not me.  I hope you fall in love with a man whose heart is hard as a rock and who treats your love like a big joke, just like you’ve done.  Goodbye you beautiful, cruel woman.”**  Turning crisply on her heel, Viola strode swiftly out of the from, practically vibrating with anger.

Olivia watched him go, marveling that so quickly her mind could change, and realizing she didn’t even know his name…She began reviewing their conversation to herself.  **“’Who are your parents?’  ‘I was born to a higher position than I’ve got now, but I’m still fairly high-ranking.  I’m a gentleman.’  Yes, I’m sure you are!  Your way of talking, your face, your body, your behavior, and your sensitive soul all prove you’re a gentleman.  Ah, no.  Calm down, clam down!”**   Despite this self-given advice, Olivia found herself caught up in this new feeling.  **“I can feel this young man’s perfection creeping in through my eyes.”**   A sudden idea occurred to her, and she called out loudly and imperiously, **“Malvolio!  Come here!”**

 **“At your service, madam,”** the steward replied as he entered, wondering how Olivia always knew when he was walking by.  She always seemed to have another order for him just when he’d found some down time.  If only—

 **“Run after that obnoxious messenger, the duke’s servant.  He insisted on leaving this ring with me whether I wanted it or not.  Tell him I want nothing to do with it.”**  Hastily, she pulled a ring off of her finger, pressing it into his hand. **“Ask him not to encourage Orsino or get his hopes up—I’m not for him!  If that young man comes here again tomorrow, I’ll tell him why.”**

Malvolio looked down, and Olivia realized she was still holding his hand.  She let it drop, snapping, **“Hurry, Malvolio!”**

The steward came to attention, nodding stiffly.  **“Madam, I will.”**

He turned to leave, but stopped before he exited the room, staring at the back of his new mistress… _Mere girl,_ he reminded himself, but perhaps, just perhaps…

Olivia didn’t notice, as she thought of her visitor, picturing his dynamic face, his quick wit… _Mere boy,_ she reminded herself, but perhaps, just perhaps…

Then they both pulled themselves together and went their own separate ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. Here we have the second half of Act I. The character I referred to at the beginning was Feste, the jester. Figures—in a play with such clever, dynamic female characters as Viola, Maria, and Olivia, that I would nevertheless want to play the (male) jester above them all. Still, our Feste did a phenomenal job, and I don’t begrudge him the part; I had fun with my role as well—probably the most fun I had in any of my high school roles.


	4. Chapter 3 (2.1-2.3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some modern songs quoted at the end. Normally, I’d have left the songs alone—not even translated them into modern English—and every other song, I have. But the whole point of the exchange that I did change was that the characters were quoting popular songs of the day, so I went with modern songs that have the same meaning as the original lines.

~*2.1*~

_This is the sixth picture: A bustling street market, frozen in a tableau of cheerful commerce. The merchants and buyers stand under a bright midday sun, as if little to no time has passed since the last scene we silently intruded upon. The people seem hardworking enough, but they cannot be Illyrians—they are too normal, their clothing what we would expect of both their class and professions.  After so long in an improbable place, the sight of something so ordinary is as jarring as it is comforting in its familiarity._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken and the picture springs to life as a small figure in a slightly over-large white suit, duffel thrown over shoulder, strides into the frame, bringing with it sound and motion to the background players…_

****

The figure in white was pursued by a man in a sea captain’s uniform, remarkably similar to the one worn by the captain who had assisted Viola.  But this new figure was quite different from the previous gentle giant—he was of average height, and, while muscled, was lithe, obviously built more for agility than power.  His complexion was Mediterranean, and he was near to Duke Orsino in age, the first streaks of grey in his dark hair obviously having been brought out by trauma, and not time.  He called after the rapidly departing figure, **“Won’t you stay longer?  Or at least, let me go with you?”**

At last the other person turned, a young man nearly identical to Viola, shaking his head as he replied, **“No, I’d rather you stayed here. My luck is pretty bad right now, and it might rub off on you.  So, just let me say goodbye and face the bad stuff alone—otherwise, I wouldn’t be thanking you very well for all you’ve done for me.”**

The sailor, whose name was Antonio, frowned at his companion’s serious tone.  Since the very first, he’d thought the stranger, who called himself ‘Roderigo’ was far too gloomy for one so young—as if he carried some burden he never shared.  Then again, he _had_ been pulled from the sea, half-drowned, after a bad shipwreck; no one would blame him for being…subdued.

Roderigo never volunteered much information about his past, and Antonio didn’t pry—he knew all too well the desire to put distance between the present and the past.  He’d done his best to care for the stranger, viewing the task as something between penance and a second chance.  He’d come to feel protective towards Roderigo, feeling like a figure somewhere between a father or… _…Or brother._

For a second, the face in front of him seemed to change, becoming someone else, but Antonio forcibly shoved aside the fancy, saying, **“At least, tell me where you’re going.”**

The other’s voice became slightly terse with impatience as he all but snapped back, **“Honestly, I can’t!  I’m just wandering—with no particular destination.”**   He paused, then, as if ashamed of his outburst, said in a softer tone of voice, **“Antonio, my name is actually Sebastian.  My father was Sebastian of Messaline—I know you’ve heard of him.  He’s dead now, but he left behind him myself and my sister, who was born in the same hour as me.”** Sebastian hesitated, as if at a painful memory, then finally confided to his friend what he’d done his best to avoid: **“If God had been willing, I wish we had died in the same hour, too!  But you kept that from happening.  An hour before you pulled me out of the breaking waves, my sister drowned.”**

Suddenly, his young friend’s sadness made sense; Antonio himself knew it only too well.  No platitudes could assuage such a grief, but it still had to be acknowledged.  **“How tragic!”** As cheesy as it sounded, it was sincerely meant.

Sebastian continued as if he hadn’t heard his friend; and it was as if finally speaking of his sister’s death had opened some kind of previously locked door.  **“Although many people said she looked like me, she was considered beautiful.”**   He knew that wasn’t the tribute his sister would’ve wanted, though, and he followed it up with one compliment that she’d have cared for.  **“Even those who were jealous of her had to admit—she had a beautiful mind: clever, quick, yet kind.”** His throat began to tighten and he cleared it brusquely, saying almost apologetically, **“She’s been drowned in salty sea water, and now my salty tears are about to drown her memory all over again.”**

**“I’m sorry I wasn’t a better host for you sir.”**

Antonio’s comment startled Sebastian back to the present, and he smiled wanly.  **“Oh, Antonio, I’m sorry I caused you so much trouble.”**

Antonio shook his head—it had been a Christian kindness, and really, hardly any trouble at all.  But he began to worry…if Sebastian left on a journey alone, in this distracted frame of mind…It didn’t bear thinking about.  **“Let me go with you!”**

Sebastian shook his head vehemently.  **“Fare you well.”**   He turned to leave, then, feeling as if he owed Antonio at least a few more answers for all the kindness he’d been shown, he admitted his first destination: **“I’m going to the court of Duke Orsino.  Goodbye.”**

Antonio watched him walk to the other end of the market square, calling after him, **“I wish you all the best!”**   Then, as Sebastian paused out of earshot, making sure his traveling pack was in order, Antonio added to himself, **“If I didn’t have so many enemies in Orsino’s court, I’d go with you.”**   He hesitated again, remembering what happened the last time he let a charge go alone into ‘enemy territory’.  **“I care too much for your well-being to let you go alone.  Never mind the danger, I’m going.”**

He left the market square by a different path, intending to intersect Sebastian’s journey at a point too far down the way for the young man to insist his friend remain behind.

* * *

~*2.2*~

_This is the seventh picture: a different bustling market square, also frozen, though this one has a decidedly Illyrian flair, the clothing and people an eclectic mish-mash of many styles, eras, and cultures, all frozen under the same noon-day sun that lit the previous scene._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken as Viola passes through an arch on one side of the square, pursued by Malvolio, the straight-laced steward in black, and movement and sound surge back into the scene._

****

With his quarry at last in sight, Malvolio called out to the young gentleman: **“Excuse me!”**   Fortunately, the white-suited figure stopped and turned, an expectant, listening expression on his face, and Malvolio continued, **“Weren’t you with the Countess Olivia just now?”**

 _Yes, as you well know; I saw you there._ But aloud, Viola only replied, **“Yes, sir.  I’ve only made it this far since I left her place, walking at a moderate pace.”**

Malvolio frowned in distaste at the young stranger’s glib and irreverent reply.  Then again, he was almost always frowning, and usually in distaste at one thing or another.  He tried to summon a smile, but it came as more of a sneer as he told the disrespectful youth in a biting tone: **“She’s sending this ring back to you, sir.  You should’ve saved me some trouble and taken it away yourself.  She wants you to make it very clear to your lord that she wants nothing to do with him, and that you should never come back again on his behalf, unless you want to come back and tell how he took the bad news.  Receive it so.”**

For a brief moment, Viola blinked in surprise at the proffered bit of jewelry—very expensive looking!—before she regained her wits and said haughtily, **“She took that ring from me; I won’t take it back!”**

Malvolio’s sneer turned to an outright glare.  _What do they teach the nobility these days?  If I were this young gentleman’s boss or teacher, I could give him a lesson or two in manners!_ But seeing as it was unlikely he would rise so far in the world any time soon, Malvolio had to content himself with righteous outrage on behalf of the other silly member of the upper class in his life—Countess Olivia.  **“You rudely threw it at her, and she wishes me to return it in like manner!”**   So saying, he tossed the ring at the feet of the young man, snapping, **“If it’s worth bending over to pick up, there it is on the ground, where you can see it.  If not, whoever finds it can have it.”**

He turned crisply on his heel and stalked out the way he had come, with the young man watching him, rather shocked.

Viola tore her gaze from the rapidly departing figure of the discourteous steward, and stared at the ring on the hard-packed dirt.  She glanced around, but the other Illyrians in the square were all busy about their own business, and not close enough to overhear as she began musing over this turn of events aloud to herself.

 **“I didn’t give her any ring—what is she trying to say?”** Sudden realization struck, and Viola felt her heart plummet.  **“I hope she doesn’t have a crush on me!”** She thought back to the events at Olivia’s house, analyzing the Countess’s reactions.  **“It’s true she looked at me a lot.  In fact, she looked at me so much, she seemed distracted, and couldn’t finish her sentences well.”**   The conclusion seemed inevitable, and Viola shook her head, speaking in a quiet tone of disbelief.  **“I really think she loves me!  She sent this rude messenger to tell me to come back, instead of coming herself, which would’ve been indiscreet.”**   In spite of herself, Viola had to admire the simple brilliance of Olivia’s actions.  Yet… **“She might as well be in love with a dream, poor lady!”**

Viola regarded the ring again, then picked it up, musing to herself, **“How will this all turn out?  My lord loves her dearly, and I love him just as much.  And she’s deluded enough to be in love with _me_!  What can possibly fix this situation?”**  She began to think over the individual problems in the improbable love triangle, trying to be the answer to her own question.  **“I’m pretending to be a man, so my love for the Duke is hopeless.  And since I _am_** **a woman, Olivia’s love for me is hopeless as well!”**   The sheer impossibility of the situation weighed down on Viola, yet seemed so ludicrous, she could see no other alternative than to play her part as their drama unfolded.  **“Oh, only time can untangle this mess—I certainly can’t.”**

With that, she slipped the ring into her pocket and squared her shoulders, continuing on, back to Duke Orsino.

* * *

~*2.3*~

_This is the eighth picture: An upstairs room we have not seen before, but from its décor we assume it is in Olivia’s house.  Yet there are traces of another, less skilled hand having an influence, for the bench, a bit beaten-up compared to the one down stairs, has been shoved to the side, next to an equally distressed piano, and there are traces of mess around the room, as well as a few broken ornaments, as if the rooms usual occupant is extremely clumsy, or usually drunk._

_The room is ill-lit by faint moonlight streaming fitfully through a window, and a few, feeble, flickering lanterns.  Overall, despite the gloom, there is a serene quality to the picture, in its utter stillness and silence._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell and the peace are broken as raucous voices shatter the silence, and two figures stumble haltingly into the room._

****

Sir Toby, looking quite disheveled, minus his hat, one sleeve unbuttoned, and with his vest half-slipping off one shoulder, blinked a few times, then called over his shoulder to his drinking companion, **“Come on, Sir Andrew!  If we’re still awake after midnight, then we’re up early in the morning. And you know—”**

Sir Andrew was in even worse shape than his friend, his hat slipped so far down he couldn’t see at all, missing a glove and his jacket, and his cravat almost completely untied. He yanked off the offending hat as he jumped in, interrupting Sir Toby.  **“All I know is that I** **_don’t_** **know…and that staying up late is staying up late.”**

His ‘brilliant moment’ almost shattered, Sir Toby glared at his tall companion, snapping, **“A false conclusion!  I hate your logic almost as much as I hate an empty drinking cup!”** Still, he was determined to make his point, if only to show up the foppish fool.  **“Staying up after midnight means you go to bed after midnight, in the wee hours of the morning, which is early.  So it’s like going to bed early!”**   A sudden philosophical idea struck him—rather profound, if he did say so himself, and he began to set it up: **“Isn’t everyone made up of the four elements—earth, fire, water, and wind?”**

Sir Andrew, however, was not interested.  Besides, his head was already starting to hurt—he didn’t need any of Sir Toby’s ideas confusing him any more than he already was.  **“That’s what they say; but I rather think life consists of food and booze.”**

 **“You’re a smart guy!”** Philosophical point forgotten, Sir Toby clapped the lanky knight’s shoulder, saying with a broad wink, **“So we should eat…and drink!”**   Raising his voice in a fine stentorian bellow, he called, **“Maria!  Bring us some wine!”**

However, it was not the servant who entered, but Feste, the jester, grinning in anticipation of a late-night bonus.  Sir Andrew was the first of the two drunkards to notice him, and he cried out happily: **“Look! Here comes the fool!”**

Feste spread his hands expansively, his joyful expression matching the current mood.  Behind him, five of the street musicians, his sometime-coworkers, filed in.  One went straight to the piano, one brought a mandolin, another, a ukulele.  Yet another handed Feste a guitar and crossed the room to stand to the other side, joined by the final member of the motley band.  Feste winked at the two knights, who seemed oblivious to the other revelers.  **“Hello, my friends!”**

**“Come fool, let’s have a song!”**

Sir Andrew nodded, trying to speak in a confidential tone to Sir Toby, though it came out in a volume level just under ‘all-out yell,’ **“I swear, the fool has an excellent singing voice!”**

He began fishing around in his pockets, at last coming up with a coin, which Sir Toby promptly removed, pressing into Feste’s waiting hand.  **“Come, here’s a sixpence for you.  Let’s have a song.”**

Perplexed, Sir Andrew blinked at his empty hand, and Feste’s extended one.  Sir Toby had paid, so, he supposed he should, too.  With a little voice in the back of his head trying to figure out what was wrong with this picture, he produced another coin, passing it to the jester, saying, **“Here’s a sixpence from me, too.”**   Still confused, he turned to his friend and started to ask, **“If one knight gives—”**

 **“Would you like a love song, or a song about the good life?”** Feste asked.  If he kept things moving at a quick enough pace, he could milk them for money at every opportunity, and they’d be none the wiser.

 **“A love song!  A love song!”**   Sir Toby insisted in a choked voice, stumbling over to the bench and plopping down heavily.

Sir Andrew followed unsteadily, saying matter-of-factly, **“Yes, yes.  I’m not interested in being good.”**

Feste nodded to the girl at the piano, and she began the intro of the sad love song that was on everyone’s mind lately.  At the appropriate point, he began to sing, with the other instruments coming in, and the two girls on the other side of the room providing the harmony part:

**_“O mistress mine, where are you roaming?  
_ ** **_O, stay and hear!  Your true love’s coming—  
_ ** **_O mistress mine, where are you roaming?  
_ ** **_O, stay and hear!  Your true love’s coming,  
_ ** **_That can sing both high and low:  
_ ** **_Trip no further, pretty sweeting.  
_ ** **_Journeys end in lovers meeting,  
_ ** **_Every wise man’s son doth know,  
_ ** ****_Every wise man’s son doth know!”_

It was as if hearing the song had flipped a switch in the two knights, changing the mood entirely.  Now they began blubbering almost uncontrollably.  **“That was excellent, really excellent,”** Sir Andrew managed between his tears, and his friend replied in an equally morose tone: **“Good!  Very Good!”**

Feste continued with the second voice, as if he had not heard the interruption:

**_“What is love?  ‘Tis not hereafter.  
_ ** **_Present mirth hath present laughter.  
_ ** **_What is love?  ‘Tis not hereafter.  
_ ** **_Present mirth hath present laughter.  
_ ** **_What’s to come is still unsure,  
_ ** **_In delay there lies no plenty.  
_ ** **_Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.  
_ ** **_Youth’s the stuff will not endure;  
_ ** ****_Youth’s the stuff will not endure.”_

Sir Andrew sniffed loudly, pulling his previously missing glove from his pocket and blowing his nose on it.  **“A beautiful voice, I swear.”**

Sir Toby surged to his feet, shaking himself as if to rid himself of gloom and sadness.  **“What do you say?  Should we sing loud enough to shake the heavens?  Should we sing a round to wake up the night owl?  Should we do that?”**

Melancholy completely forgotten at this new suggestion, Sir Andrew bounced to his feet, saying eagerly, **“Let’s go for it!  I’m a very good singer, and can sing rounds like a dog!”**

The jester knew the ignoble knight meant ‘expert,’ but he’d have been doing his profession a disservice if he ignored the opportunity presented.  **“Then you’ll be great at catchy tunes—dogs like to play catch.”**   The joke earned a smile from both knights, but unfortunately, no money. 

Sir Andrew was practically bouncing with excitement.  **“Let’s dance to ‘Thou Knave.’**   **You start, fool.  It starts: ‘Hold your peace.’** ”

Feste grinned leaning in as if to speak conspiratorially to the two who bent over to hear him better.  **“But I cannot begin…if I hold my peace!”**

The knights roared with laughter at this ‘hilarious’ joke, and, wiping tears from his eyes, Sir Toby gasped out: **“Very true!  But come on, start!”**

The jester needed no further urging. He nodded to the other musicians who began a rollicking and rambunctious tune, then he began to sing:

**_“Hold thy peace,  
_ ** **_I pray thee: hold thy peace;  
_ ** **_Thou knave, thou knave!  
_ ** **_Hold thy peace,  
_ ** **_I pray thee: hold thy peace;  
_ ** ****_Thou knave: hold thy peace!”_

He began to repeat the verse, and the two knights joined in, Sir Toby contributing a bass line composed of mostly nonsense syllables only tangentially related to the tune: **“** _Bum-tat-ta-tum-rumpity-tum-bum-bum,”_ and so on; and Sir Andrew adding his own embellishments, mostly on off-key and ill-timed repetition of the phrase: **_“Hold peace! Hold peace!”_**

They sang through this version two times, unaware that behind them, Maria had entered.  She stormed over first to the group of musicians by the piano, glaring at them until they halted their playing, then at the two girls singing harmony, who also faltered to a stop.  Feste noticed her and stopped his presentation, but the two knights kept going.  Half a measure later, Sir Toby had caught Maria’s glare and stumbled sulkily to a stop, like a reprimanded child, But Sir Andrew, apparently not hearing his voice in the silence, kept going until he turned to find the serving-maid standing right beside him, glaring in pure venom. He gulped, as if trying to swallow any further speech or signing, then scuttled across the room to sit on the bench once more.

Maria cast her accusing glare over the now silent and subdued occupants of the room, before speaking in a harsher tone than any she’d used in a long while.  **“You are making a terrible racket up here!  Lady Olivia has told her servant Malvolio to kick you out of this house—I swear it’s true!”**

The musicians looked properly cowed, but not sir Toby.  He stumbled over to Maria, grinning at her as he declared: **“Pah!  Aren’t I her relative?  Are we not related? Fiddle-dee-dee!”** with that, he turned his attention to Feste, calling out his request for the next song: **“Lady!”**

Feste struck the appropriate beginning chord on his guitar, and Sir Toby whirled away (more or less) singing otherwise unaccompanied.  **_“There lived a man in Babylon, lady, lady…”_**

Feste caught Maria’s glare, and knew she blamed him, correctly, for egging Sir Toby on, though, admittedly, he’d needed little encouragement.  He sidestepped her as she went to try to corral the still-singing knight, and crossed to Sir Andrew, remarking casually, **“Gosh!  The knight’s very good at acting like a fool!”**

Sir Andrew was beginning to feel shown up and inadequate, so he pouted, **“Yes, he’s rather good at it when he’s in the mood—and so am I!  He’s had more practice, but it comes naturally to me!”**

 _No doubt about that!_ Nevertheless, Feste kept this observation to himself, as things were just starting to get interesting between Sir Toby and Maria.

**“For the love of God, shut up!”**

The knight paused, as if considering her order, then turned to his two companions with a mischievous glint in his eyes.  On a silent signal, the musicians and the drunkards struck up another round of ‘You Knave’.  This time, Maria’s efforts could not quiet any of the participants, and at last, she sat on the bench that Sir Andrew had vacated when the song began.

**“My masters!”**

Every head turned as one to see the steward, Malvolio, standing in the doorway, still in nightcap and robe, holding a lit candle, and with such an expression of rage the song petered out, and all the musicians save Feste rapidly vacated the room.  Sir Andrew rushed back to the bench, as if to deny he’d ever been participating in the ‘fun,’ and sat beside Maria, who glared at him.

In the sudden silence, Malvolio’s lecture rang like a hammer on an anvil, every word hurled like a weapon at the three men he despised the most.  **“Are you all crazy?  Or what’s wrong with you?  Are you making this much noise at this time of night because you have no manners, or because you’re just stupid?  Don’t you have any respect for anything?”**

Sir Toby turned to regard Malvolio, grinning in such a way that made Maria hide her face in her hands, afraid to watch what was coming next.  The drunk knight spread his hands, saying simply, **“We respected the beat of our song, ‘sir,’ so shut up!”**   The last two words came out at just under a yell, belying the anger behind them, and all eyes turned to see how Malvolio would react.

The steward drew himself up to his full height, glaring down at Sir Toby, who was, admittedly, short in comparison.  **“Sir Toby,”** he began in a strained but patronizing tone, **“My lady told me to tell you that while she lets you stay at her house because you’re a relative, she doesn’t approve of your behavior.  If you can shape up, you’re welcome to stay in the house.  If you can’t, and would prefer to leave, she’s very willing to say goodbye to you.”**

Even Sir Toby could not miss the weakness of Olivia’s insistence, though whether it was her phrasing or Malvolio’s, who could say?  Nevertheless, he was confident enough in his position to begin joking again.  He nodded to Feste, then began to sing: **_“You didn’t have to stoop so low!”_**

Feste caught on to the knight’s game, and decided to play along, if only to get under Malvolio’s skin. **_“But the leader of the band is tired, and his eyes are growing old!”_**

Sir Toby ignored Malvolio’s outraged expression, but he grimaced at the jester.  _I’m not that old!_ **_“I’m not ready to make nice; I’m not ready to back down!”_**

Feste shrugged, ignoring the glare, adding his contribution: **_“You’ll be alright—no one can hurt you now!”_**

Malvolio turned his back on the jokers and stalked over to loom over Maria as she sat on the bench, as if to blame her for such a childish display.

Sir Toby didn’t notice, and kept signing. **_“Time to make one last appeal for the life I lead.”_**

**_“Stay on track!  Don’t accept defeat!_ **

Maria looked up at Malvolio’s glaring face, shrugging helplessly.  Did he honestly expect her to be able to control all three of them?

**_“And I won’t sit back, and take this anymore!”  
_ ** **_“It cannot wait, I’m sure!”_ **

Sir Toby glanced sideways at Feste—that last line had been really, really off.  **“That was out of tune, sir.”**   With that, Sir Toby turned, to see the small drama by the bench, and a sudden anger filled him.  He may not have been sure of much, but he knew he didn’t like that pompous, overbearing steward intimidating Maria. **“You lie!”**   The rage in his voice took all in the room by surprise, and caused Malvolio to turn to him.  **“You’re nothing more than a servant here!  Do you think that because you’re a goody-two-shoes, no one else can have a good time?  Go!”** he pointed to the door, his gaze never leaving Malvolio’s pasty face.  **“Go and polish your steward’s chain.  Maria,”** he turned to her, and there was a new determination in his eyes—the determination he may have once had long ago, **“bring us some more wine.”**

Before the girl could reply, Malvolio turned on her once again.  **“Miss Maria, if you cared what lady Olivia thinks about you at all, you wouldn’t contribute to this rude behavior.  I assure you, she _will_ find out about it.”**  With that final threat, he stalked out.

Maria stood, watching him go, almost shaking with anger.  The three others in the room regarded her warily.  They’d never seen her so mad, not even when she yelled at them.  The serving maid seethed within. _That stuck-up snitch!  He’s been out to get me ever since the fight we had the day he broke it off!_ Aloud, she only called, **“Oh, go wiggle your ears!”** but the two knights applauded her display of defiance.  Feste had now retreated by himself, not certain that getting involved any further would be the right risk to take.

Sir Andrew spoke up first.  **“There’s nothing I’d like more than to make a fool out of that guy somehow.  I could challenge him to a duel and then not show up—that should do the trick!”**

Sir Toby imagined the scene, and thought it amusing enough to pursue.  **“Do that!  I’ll write a letter challenging him to a duel on your behalf.  Or I’ll deliver your insults to his face!”**

A sudden idea had occurred to Maria and she turned to the knights, saying quickly, **“Dear Sir Toby, don’t do anything rash tonight.  As for Monsieur Malvolio, let me take care of him.  I’ll make a big fool out of him, just trust me.  I’ll make him famous for his stupidity, and everyone will laugh at him!  I know I can do it.”**

Sir Toby took her hand, leading her over to the bench, where Sir Andrew moved sideways to make room for her.  In an attempt to figure out her trick before she could explain, Sir Toby said, **“Tell us something about him; come on, tell us something!”**

She paused dramatically, as if thinking, replying matter-of-factly, **“Well, sometimes he acts like a goody-two-shoes.”**

**“Oh, I’ll beat him up for that!”**

Maria rolled her eyes, and laid a single restraining hand on Sir Andrew’s arm, to forestall any further interruptions.  **“He’s not really all that pure and good.  But he’s proud, and he thinks he’s so stuffed full of wonderful qualities that everyone loves him.  That’s the weakness I’ll use to get revenge on him.”**

Sir Toby stood behind her, leaning over her shoulder as he asked, **“What are you going to do?”**

Maria bounced to her feet and walked a few paces, acting out her plot as she narrated: **“I’ll drop some ‘mysterious’ love letters in his path.  He’ll think they’re addressed to him, because they’ll describe the color of his hair, the shape of his legs, the way he walks, and the expression on his face.  I can make my handwriting look just like Lady Olivia’s.”**   She left that tidbit dangling out there, waiting to see if her co-conspirators would catch her thought.

Sir Toby did almost immediately and he strode over to her.  **“Excellent! Sounds like you’ve got a good trick in mind!”**

He was about to continue, but Sir Andrew was feeling left out and skittered over to them, saying hastily but in complete ignorance, **“Oh! Uh, I like it, too!”**

Sir Toby ignored him, and continued speaking to Maria.  **“He’ll think these letters are from Olivia—and that she’s in love with him!”**

Finally in on the joke, Sir Andrew laughed. **“This is going to be great!”**

Maria nodded at him, a triumphant smile spreading across her face.  **“It’s going to be fun, I promise.  I know my medicine will work on him.  I’ll have you to hide where he’ll find the letter—watch his reaction!  Meanwhile, let’s go to bed and dream about this.  Good night!”**   with that cheerful farewell, she turned on her heel and left the room, with the two knights watching her go approvingly.

 **“She’s a fine woman alright,”** Sir Andrew said at last.

Feste glanced up, across at the two knights who still stood in the center of the room.  _You’re too late, buddy.  Not that she’d have gone for you, anyway…_

It was Sir Toby who broke the bad news, though.  **“She’s a good little woman, and she adores me.”**

Instantly deflated, Sir Andrew wanly replied, **“Someone adored me, too.  Once…”**

One by one, the conspirators slipped off to their beds, each filled with their own thoughts of how to carry off the plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. The songs quoted, in order, were: ‘Somebody that I Used to Know’ by Gotye; ‘Leader of the Band’ by Dan Fogelberg; ‘Not Ready to Make Nice’ by the Dixie Chicks; ‘Safe and Sound’ by Taylor Swift and the Civil Wars; ‘Stop and Stare’ by One Republic; ‘Got the Distance’ from Hercules; ‘Pressing On’ by Reliant K; and ‘I’m Yours’ by Jason Mraz. I know some of these are a little older—I started this adaptation shortly after I was in this production (7+Years Ago)—but did any of you get them all?


	5. Chapter 4 (2.4-2.5)

~*2.4*~

_This is the ninth picture: We are once more in the duke’s palace, with various attendants standing ready, including Viola, still in her ‘Cesario’ disguise, who stands closest to the temporarily unoccupied couch.  The Duke himself is nowhere to be seen, but there is a street musician sitting to the side of the room, far from the piano, idly strumming her guitar._

_As soon as we take this in, the picture springs to life as the Duke strides in, fully dressed but toweling off his wet hair._

****

 **“Play some music!”**   As the frightened girl obliged, Orsino briefly acknowledge the scattered attendants.  **“Good morning friends—”** He stopped when he didn’t recognize the strain of music now filtering from the guitar.  **“Sing the old-fashioned song that was sung last night.  It made me feel better and took my mind off my troubles.”**   The girl stopped playing and stared at him blankly, almost frightened.  He frowned at her, not understanding her reaction.  _Does she really not like singing that song?_ He gestured for her to begin it anyway, urging, **“Come on, just one verse!”**

Curio glanced at the completely baffled girl, timidly interjecting, **“Sir, the person who sang that song isn’t here, now.”**

Orsino froze, annoyed at himself for having forgotten the identity of the singer.  He nodded brusquely to the musician, all the apology she would get.  Still unable to remember the singer, her snapped at Curio, **“Who was it?”**

 **“Feste, the jester, my lord.”** Curio replied, not batting an eye at his lord’s brusque tone.  Knowing the question the Duke hadn’t asked, he added, **“He’s somewhere in the house.”**

**“Then go find him.  Meanwhile, play.”**

Curio bowed once to the Duke, then exited.  Once more, peace descended as music filled the room.  Orsino sat, for once tired of always finding new ways to play the devoted lover.  At one time or another, he’d tried to get his staff to open up about their own opinions about love, but they’d all been colossal disappointments.  Except…

_I haven’t asked Cesario yet.  He’s a clever young lad, so what he lacks in experience he may make up for with brains.  Well, it’s worth a shot._

**“Come here boy,”** Orsino commanded gesturing for ‘Cesario’ to sit next to him on the couch.  Hesitantly, the young man complied, and the Duke continued speaking now in his ‘performing voice.’  **“If you ever fall in love, and feel the bittersweet pain it brings, think of me.  Because the way I am now is exactly how all true lovers are—moody and unable to focus on anything except the face of the one they love the most.”**    On the last few words, Orsino found himself gazing into a hand mirror, smiling contentedly at the reflection he beheld.  As if realizing what he was doing, the duke carelessly tossed the mirror to one side and turned back to ‘Cesario’.  _Now, let’s put him to the test!_   **“What do you think of this song?”**

 **“It really makes you feel what a lover feels,”** came the completely honest reply.

Something in his attendant’s voice stopped Orsino, and almost as soon as he had said: **“You’re absolutely right!”** Orsino turned to ‘Cesario’ and examined his face carefully.  Surprised and delighted by what he saw there, he sat back, grinning in earnest and saying animatedly, **“I’d bet my life that, as young as you are, you’ve fallen in love with someone. Haven’t you, boy?”**

 _If you only knew!_ But of course, Viola couldn’t tell him—she was in too deep, now!  Knowing she was treading on thin ice, Viola did her best to answer as honestly as she could without putting herself at risk.  **“A- little bit,”** she hesitantly admitted.

Was that a blush Orsino detected?  It was interesting to him to see someone else play the lover for once-play it without trying, honestly—and he felt intrigued enough to keep pressing.  **“What kind of woman is she?”**

Viola couldn’t maintain eye contact as she replied, **“She’s a lot like you.”**

 **“She’s not good enough for you, then.”**   It should be noted that this wasn’t exactly modesty—more horror at picturing a woman who looked and acted like him, far from the standard of an ‘ideal lady.’  (He still thought of himself as a great example of a _man_ , however).  Still, he wanted to know more.  Maybe he could even figure out who it was! **“How old is she?”**

The situation was getting harder and harder for Viola to safely navigate, but she gave it her best shot. **“About as old as you are, my lord.”**

Orsino sat bolt upright at this, saying in an earnest, almost frightened tone, **“That’s definitely too old! Find someone younger to love. Women are like roses: the moment their beauty is in full bloom, it’s about to decay.”**   The duke might have been startled to know that his most poetical images and treatises on love came not when he forced them, in order to put on a performance, but when he spoke them honestly for the true sake of another.

Viola felt the words go through her like a knife—how could any woman hope to hold a man’s affection when the loss of outward beauty could so sour their perspective?  In a soft, almost heartbroken tone, she replied, **“That’s true. It’s too bad that their beauty fades right when it reaches perfection.”**

Orsino took in the downcast figure beside him, trying to figure out why the lad had taken his last statement so harshly.   ‘Cesario’ was a character the duke was still trying to figure out, but before he could continue to press, he saw Curio re-enter the room, leading Feste the jester behind him.  Vulnerable moment forgotten, the duke regained his imperious tone as he spoke to the newcomer.

**“My friend, sing us the song you sang last night.  Listen carefully to it, Cesario, it’s a simple old song.  It tells the simple truth about innocent love, as it was in the good old days.”**

Feste managed to suppress an eye-roll at this melodramatic intro, but he did pause for effect, as if waiting for the Duke to continue before asking, **“Are you ready, sir?”**

 **“Yes, please sing,”** Orsino all but snapped, as if sensing a little of Feste’s subtle mockery.  But all annoyance was forgotten as the young man began to sing, his admittedly excellent voice began to fill the room with the song of unrequited love.

**_“Come away, come away, death,  
_ ** **_And in sad cypress let me be laid.  
_ ** **_Fly away, fly away breath—  
_ ** **_I am slain by a fair, cruel maid.  
_ ** **_My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,  
_ ** **_O, prepare it!  
_ ** **_My part of death, no one so true,  
_ ** ****_Did share it.”_

As he continued to sing, Feste began to walk behind the Duke as Orsino sat on the couch listening, head bowed in sorrow of some kind.  Real or imaginary no one on the outside could determine, but Feste knew full well that both would feel genuine to the Duke in his current state of mind, which always meant more coin in the jester’s pocket.  Therefore, he very carefully aimed the second verse at the morose Orsino.

**_“Not a flower, not a flower sweet,  
_ ** **_On my black coffin let there be strown.  
_ ** **_Not a friend, not a friend greet,  
_ ** **_My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown.  
_ ** **_A thousand, thousand sighs to save,  
_ ** **_Lay me, O, where,  
_ ** **_Sad true love never find my grave—  
_ ** ****_To weep there.”_

As the song finished, Feste wondered in the back of his mind what it said that it was almost easier to manipulate the emotions of the Duke of the land than those of two drunk knights.  Orsino managed to rouse himself a little, holding out a coin and saying in a choked voice, **“Here’s some money for your trouble.”**

**“No trouble, sir. I like singing.”**

Orsino gave a wry smile at the flippant response, replying a half-mocking tone, still proffering the coin, **“Then I’ll pay you for doing what you like.”**

The jester’s payment quickly vanished as Feste replied, **“Well, in that case: all right. We all pay for what we like sooner or later.”**

**“You may leave.”**

Feste shook his head internally at the Duke’s sudden lack of appetite for his company.  He felt that the ice was still thick enough for one parting shot.  If Orsino was still in a mostly negative mood when Feste left, he might not summon the jester back again.  Therefore, as a protection of an investment, Feste glibly added as he left: **“I’ll pray for the god of sadness to protect you, sir.  And I hope your tailor will make you an outfit of fabric that changes color, because your mind is like an opal that changes colors constantly.  Goodbye.”**

 **“All the rest of you can leave, too.”** Orsino watched as various servants, attendants, and musicians began to filter out by one exit or another, but he stopped the last one with a hand on his arm.  Scene with the jester now almost completely forgotten already, he hissed urgently, **“Cesario, go visit that cruel Olivia one more time.  Tell her my love is purer than anything else in the whole world, and has nothing to do with her property.  The wealth she’s inherited isn’t what makes me value her.”**

Viola was quickly growing concerned.  Yes, she cared for the duke as more than a servant or friend, but _anyone_ observing how the cruel Countess toyed with his emotions as if they were some kind of disposable trinket would do their best to rescue him from this torture.  She’d hoped her dismal report would’ve put an end to this cruel sport, put apparently it had not.  Still, she felt she had to try.  **“But if she can’t love you, sir?”**

It was as if Orsino could hear the lecture this mere boy wanted to give and turned away, snapping angrily, **“I refuse to accept that!”**   If only out of mere stubbornness and desire to disprove all the nay-sayers, or perhaps because he’d never before been foiled in getting anything he wanted, he was determined to see this suit through to what he thought of as its inevitable conclusion.

 **“But you have to!”** Viola caught her breath as she saw the Duke’s back stiffen.  She could have apologized and let it go there—like all the other servants and attendants had done—but she could not bring herself to back down from what she saw as right.  Instead, she took another tack, saying in a softer, more hesitant tone: **“Just imagine some lady might exist who loves you as powerfully and agonizingly as you love Olivia.  But you can’t love her, and you tell her so. Shouldn’t she just accept that?”**

Orsino turned back to ‘Cesario,’ almost offended by the analogy.  **“No woman is strong enough to put up with the kind of intense passion I feel.  No woman’s heart is big enough to hold all my love.  Don’t compare a woman’s love for a man with my love for Olivia!”**

 **“Yes, but I know—”** Viola cut herself off, terrified by the rest of the phrase that had almost slipped through her lips, past her guard: _“…know that that’ s not true, because I love you as much if not more so than you love Olivia.”_   How could she have made such a mistake?

The duke was confused as to why ‘Cesario’ had stopped, or why he now looked so frightened.  Something in the genuineness and fearlessness in the lad’s previous manner intrigued Orsino, so he prompted with genuine curiosity, **“What do you know?”**

Viola took a deep breath and began speaking slowly, forming each sentence carefully in her mind, testing its safety before delivering it.  **“I know a lot about the love women can feel for men.  Actually, their hearts are as sensitive and loyal as ours are.”** Viola felt as much as saw the duke’s surprised and skeptical expression, but continued in the same careful manner.  **“My father had a daughter who loved a man in the same way I might love you if I were a woman.”**

**“And what’s her story?”**

_Well,_ Viola thought, _I now have his attention. I better make the most of it._ **“There was no story, my lord.  She never told him she loved him.  She kept her love bottled up inside her until it destroyed her, ruining her beauty.  She pined away.  She just sat waiting patiently, sadly, smiling despite her sadness.  Her complexion turned greenish from depression.”**  For all her effort, her final question had a tinge of seeking confirmation as she asked: **“Doesn’t that sound like true love?”**

Orsino leaned forward, intrigued by this story.  **“But did your sister die of love?”**

 **“I am the only daughter in my father’s family,”** Viola admitted, then, as if that had triggered her almost-forgotten grief once more, she turned away, trying to hold her tears back as she thought of her lost twin.   **“…and all the brothers, too—but I don’t know the answer to that.”**

Orsino may not have known the lad’s story, but he was moved with compassion that he couldn’t quite explain, giving ‘Cesario’ a hug.

Viola wanted to relax into his arms, to enjoy this moment, but had just enough presence of mind to not give herself away in that manner.  Still, it was a bit awkward when they broke away, both having the sense that that moment had lasted a bit _too_ long.  In an attempt to distract them both, Viola finally let go of her battle, asking, **“Anyway, sir, should I go see the lady?”**

 **“Yes, go quickly and give her this jewel.”** Orsino thrust a ring at ‘Cesario,’ trying to figure out what just happened in the back of his mind even as he gave the rest of his instructions. **“Tell her my love won’t go away, and won’t be denied.”**

With that, both turned on their heel, quickly exiting in opposite directions, one’s face burning, the other’s mind turning.

* * *

~*2.5*~

_This is the tenth picture: A well-maintained, outdoor garden, with a small bench front and center, standing several feet in front of a long, waist-high box hedge.  To one side is a dip in the land, to the other, a venerable tree shades another small bench, and the rest of the area is dotted with small, well-manicured flower beds connected by grassy paths.  The early-morning sun lights the whole scene, and the air is thick with the scent of flowers and sound of birds and insects, but nothing to tell us whose property—Orsino’s or Olivia’s—we are currently observing._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken and the picture springs to life as Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and a male servant we last saw in Olivia’s opening procession enter, obviously deep in conversation; the sight of them finally confirming what nothing else could—that this is Olivia’s garden._

****

Sir Toby was completely sober for once, and filled with an energy the other two had never seen in him before, obviously eagerly anticipating the show that was soon to unfold.  His companions were moving far too slow for his liking, and he called out to one of them, **“Come along with us, Signor Fabian.”**

The bespectacled servant, looking quite out of place in the warm garden, dressed as he was in a wool suit and sweater vest, had been invited to join in the sport as he was Maria’s cousin and no friend of Malvolio.  He shook his head at the knight’s insistence, replying in good humor: **“I’m coming—don’t worry! If I miss this, let me be boiled alive!”**

**“Won’t you be glad to see that rascal dog humiliated?”**

**“I’ll be thrilled,”** was Fabian’s honest answer, anger almost overtaking his glee for the moment, as he remembered how Olivia’s stiff-laced steward had wronged him.  **“You know, he got me in trouble with the lady of the house once.”**   And how hard it had been for him to work himself back into her good graces—and all for what?  All for attending—on his off-time, no less—a small hunt, that the animal-loving lady of the house disapproved of.

Sir Toby nodded sympathetically, remembering the incident.  It said something about the state of affairs in Olivia’s house that, despite the difference in social ranks and his constant drinking, her uncle got on better with most of the servants than the steward that, technically, was one of them.    **“We’ll mock him until he’s black and blue.”**   Upon seeing the mastermind of the plot approaching them down one garden path, Sir Toby called, **“Here comes the little villain!”**

Maria also seemed to be in high spirits, for she could barely stifle her giggles enough to deliver final instructions and explanations to the three of them.  **“Hide behind the boxwood hedge, all three of you; Malvolio’s coming down the path.  Watch him carefully if you want to have some fun, guys: this letter’s going to turn him into a starry-eyed idiot.”**   When her co-conspirators laughed but didn’t move, she merrily hissed at them, **“Hide, for God’s sake!”**   As the two knights and her cousin scrambled around to the far side of the hedge, she lay the letter conspicuously next to the unshaded bench, where any walking that way were sure to see it, saying with a wide grin, **“Now, you lie there on the path.  Here comes the fish that’s going to gobble up our bait.”**

With that, Maria turned on her heel, quickly making her way behind an arbor, intending to take the hidden path back to the house, not trusting herself to remain silent while watching the scene that was sure to follow.  Almost as soon as Maria had vanished, Malvolio walked up the very path she had taken in her first approach, musing and daydreaming aloud to himself, thinking back to what he had perceived as very clear signs that his fortunes were soon to change.

 **“It’s all luck.  Everything’s luck.  Maria once told me Olivia was fond of me.  I’ve almost heard Olivia say that herself.  She said if she were interested in someone, it would be someone who looked like me.”**   Malvolio sat on the bench, which gave the three behind the hedge an excellent view as all three heads popped up above the leaves in unison, the steward’s mind lingering a little on the moment when Olivia had held his hands for a while, allowing that moment to color various things he may have overheard.  **“What’s the obvious conclusion from that?”**

Sir Toby couldn’t resist a whispered, **“What an egomaniac!”** but Fabian hissed at him: **“Shh!”**

**“I swear: I’d like to beat the jerk so hard!”**

The two of them wheeled on Sir Andrew, who’d gotten all the way up to his knees, shoulders now visible above the hedge if Malvolio so much as turned.  As Sir Toby, who knelt in the middle, forced Sir Andrew back down, Fabian whispered urgently: **“Be quiet!”**

Fabian needn’t have worried—Malvolio was far too caught up in his own thoughts and voice to notice the ‘peanut gallery’ behind him.  **“Just think—I could be _Count_** **Malvolio!”**

 **“Ah what a jerk!”**   Malvolio’s boldness had brought all three spectators to their knees, but it was Sir Toby that voiced what they’d all been thinking. Not to be outdone, Sir Andrew had to add his own contribution: **“Shoot him—just shoot him!”**   Afraid that the fool would tip Malvolio off, Sir Toby clamped his hand over Sir Andrew’s mouth, warning, **“Shh—shh!”**

As they sank back down so that only their heads could be seen, Fabian glared over at the two knights, but the glare soon gave way to a grin as he all but mouthed: **“Shh!  We’ve got him right where we want him: he’s on a big ego trip!”**

And indeed: he was.  **“Just think of me, having been married to her for three months, sitting around majestically—”**

 **“If only I had a sling shot so I could hit him in the eye!”** In truth, though, Sir Toby would not have halted the ongoing scene for almost anything—even a drink.

**“Calling my servants together, wearing an embroidered robe, having just come from a couch where I’ve left Olivia sleeping—”**

This image and boldness was almost too much for Sir Toby, and he actually stood and started to walk around the hedge to confront the daydreaming steward, with a strangled cry of **“That does it!”**   Only a well-timed tackle from Fabian prevented the incensed knight from giving the game away.

Sir Toby worked his way back to a crouched position, still glaring daggers at Malvolio, with Fabian whispering as soothingly as he could in his ear: **“Oh, be quiet—be quiet!”**

Malvolio began to pace, acting out the scene as it played in his head, an extremely odd and slightly sickening smile spreading across his pasty face in delight at the story he told himself.  **“Then, I’d put on a lofty and exalted expression. I’d look around the room calmly, then tell them that I know my place, and I’d like them to know theirs.  Then, I’d tell them to go and find my uncle, Toby—”**

 **“That really does it!”**   This exclamation, it must be noted, was not born out of anger so much as a sense of foreboding, and the thought of having to claim this pretentious fool as kin.

Fabian was beginning to realize that his cousin had asked him to come into the plot at this point mainly to prevent the other two from blowing it all in their outrage. **“Oh, quiet, quiet!  Please, please!”**

 **“I’d send seven of my servants to go get him.  While I waited, I’d frown impatiently, and wind my watch, or play with my—”** Malvolio hesitated, unable to suppress a grin at the thought of the vast wealth that was his in this imaginary scenario. **“—with some expensive piece of jewelry I happen to be wearing.  Toby would approach me.  He’d bow to me—”**

Sir Toby snorted at the thought, unable to miss the not-so-subtle fact that Malvolio was no longer deigning to acknowledge ‘his’ uncle’s rank—something that technically he should do, even if this preposterous circumstance came to physical reality.  **“Are we going to let this guy live?”**   The others looked at him sympathetically, knowing how hard this was for him, but said nothing, not wanting to miss any of Malvolio’s performance.  All three of them were so engrossed that they now risked kneeling, shoulders above the top of the hedge.

**“And I’d say to him: ‘Uncle Toby, since I’ve been lucky enough to marry your niece, I have the right to say a few things to you—’”**

**“Oh yeah?  Like what?”**

**“‘You must stop being a drunk!’”**

At this half-shouted declaration, Sir Toby shot to his feet, mouth falling open in outrage and disbelief.  **“Get out of here, you scab!”**

Fabian hauled on his arm, trying to get him to kneel back down.  **“No, be quiet, or we’ll screw up the joke!”**   Despite his best efforts, Sir Toby didn’t stiffly return to kneeling until Malvolio continued, fortunately changing the imaginary subject.

**“‘And you’re wasting your time with that foolish knight—’”**

**“That’s me, I bet,”** Sir Andrew muttered, moping.

 **“‘—That Sir Andrew.”**   Malvolio’s voice and face both rang with distaste as he all but spit out the name.

Sir Andrew sank down, until only his eyes and forehead could be seen, as his melancholy voice proclaimed, **“I knew he was talking about me.  A lot of people call me foolish.”**

**“What’s this?”**

The three could tell just by the tone of his voice that Malvolio had now spotted the letter, even before they saw him stoop to pick it up or sit to read it, and they were once more kneeling, all three of them, intently listening once more.  Fabian grinned at the others.  **“He’s taking the bait!”**

Malvolio looked at the swooping, curling, obviously feminine writing, frowning as he mused aloud to himself.  **“My goodness, this is my lady’s handwriting!  It is definitely her handwriting, no doubt about it!”**   Now, he began to read the address, such as it was. **“‘To my dear beloved, who doesn’t know I love him, I send you this letter with all my heart.’ —That’s exactly how she talks!”**   When he went to break the seal and read the contents, he stopped briefly, looking at the insignia.  **“Wait!  This is the stamp my lady seals her letters with—it has a picture of Lucrece on it.  This letter is from Olivia.  Who is it written to?”** Letter now open, the steward began to read the poem found within.

**“‘God knows I love someone—  
** **But who?  
** **I can’t let my lips say his name;  
** **No man must know.’”**

Malvolio looked up from reading, startled.  **“No man must know? What comes after that? Look—the meter changes in her poem…  ‘No man must know.’  What if this someone was you, Malvolio?”**   He grinned at the thought, but the others were all but dumbfounded at how easily their trap was springing.

 **“Go hang yourself, you stinking badger!”**   Still unaware of his audience, despite Sir Toby’s interjection, Malvolio kept reading.

**“I may command the one I love.  
** **But silence cuts open my heart like a knife,  
** **With strokes that draw no blood.  
** **M.O.A.I. rules my life.”**

Sir Toby had to shake his head at the cleverness of the mastermind servant girl.  **“That Maria has outdone herself!”**   The knight decided to take this opportunity, while the killjoy of a steward was engrossed in the letter and its pretentious riddle, to slip from behind the hedge to the vantage point behind the large tree a few feet to his left.

 **“‘M.O.A.I. rules my life…’”** Malvolio repeated, then decided to backtrack a few lines and start his unraveling there.  **“Hmm, let me see, let me see…  ‘I may command the one I love.’  Well, she commands me: I’m her servant; she’s my boss.”**   As Malvolio continued to force himself into the verse, Fabian quietly slipped after Sir Toby, joining him behind the tree.  Malvolio continued, still oblivious.  **“Why, anyone can see what this means; there’s no ambiguity here.  But the end—what do those letters mean?  If only I could somehow relate them to me!  Hmm, M.O.A.I.—“**

Feeling lonely behind the hedge, Sir Andrew decided to follow his ‘friends,’ and began to cross in front of the hedge to join them.  When he was only halfway there, Malvolio surged to his feet, crying out delightedly, **“‘M’—Malvolio!”**   Terrified that he would be discovered, Sir Andrew turned on his heel, gangly arms and legs flapping seemingly every which way at once, and flung himself into the little dip in the land while the other two observers winced, but their target still continued, still unabated, elaborating on his discovery to what the thought was an empty garden.

 **“‘M’—Why, that’s the first letter in my name!”**   His grin only widened as he read the four mysterious letters again.  **“Every one of those letters is in my name! But wait: there’s some prose after her poem.”**

As Malvolio sat back down, Sir Andrew rose, then scurried across to the others, who beckoned, urging him to hurry and to stop hesitating.  Upon diving behind the trunk, he knocked Sir Toby out of his hiding place.  When the knight tried to force his way back to ‘invisibility’, Fabian tumbled into view, quickly standing back up and darting behind the tree once more.  A brief scuffle behind the tree ensued before they finally got themselves situated, after which they poked their heads around the trunk, one after (and on top of) the other.

Meanwhile, Malvolio started reading again. **“‘By my birth, I rank above you, but don’t be afraid of my greatness.  Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.  Accept it in body and spirit.’”** Malvolio’s brow furrowed, and as he continued reading, he stood up, walking to the bench that was shaded by the tree that concealed the still-unseen observers.  **“‘To get used to the life you’ll most likely be leading soon, get rid of your low-class trappings.  Show some eagerness for the new upscale lifestyle that’s waiting for you.  Argue with a relative like a nobleman, and be rude to servants.  The woman who advises you to do this loves you.  Remember the woman who complemented you on your yellow stockings, and said she always wanted to see you with crisscrossing laces going up your legs—remember her.  A happy new life is there if you want it.  Goodbye.  Signed, she who would be your servant, The Fortunate Unhappy.’”**

Malvolio looked up from the letter at last, his sickly grin so wide it lent a mad look to his eyes.  In a frenzied delight, he began rambling.  **“I will be vain and proud!  I’ll get rid of my low-class friends.  I know I’m not fooling myself, because every clue points to the fact that Lady Olivia loves me!  She did compliment me on my yellow stockings recently; that’s her way of saying she loves me.  Oh, I think my lucky stars, I’m so happy!  For her I’ll be strange and condescending, and I’ll put on my yellow stockings and crisscross laces right away.  Thank God and my horoscope!  Here’s a postscript:**

 **‘You must have figured out who I am.  If you love me, let me know by smiling at me.  You’re so attractive when you smile.  Please smile whenever you’re near me, my dearest darling.’”**   Malvolio surged to his feet, all but bursting with delight and eagerness.  **“Dear God: Thank you!  I’ll do everything she wants me to do!”**   With that, he tore down the garden path that led to the servant quarters and his yellow stockings, grinning like a lunatic the whole way.

After a beat, the two knights and the servant stumbled out from behind the tree, finally letting out the laughter they’d been holding in the whole time.  Every time they got themselves almost under control, they’d meet each other’s gaze, then burst out once again.  When at last he could speak, Sir Toby managed to gasp and wheeze out: **“I could marry that Maria for thinking this up!”**

 **“So could I!”** chorused Sir Andrew, not to be outdone or left out.

Fabian spotted his cousin scurrying towards them behind the arbor, and he called out, **“Here she comes, the brilliant fool-catcher!”**   The others turned at this, and saw Maria, waiting for their report, and once more, they burst out laughing.

Maria laughed too, and was sure of the answer even before she asked, **“Did it really work?”**   The looks on their face, and the guffaws they could not stop were answer enough for the servant, and she began to explain the next step of her devious plot. **“If you really want to have fun, watch him next time he’s near Lady Olivia.”**   It was a scene she wouldn’t miss for the world, and one she could picture—and describe—all too well.  **“He’ll show up in yellow stockings—she hates yellow—and with laces crisscrossing up his legs—she hates that style of dress—and he’ll smile, which will go completely against her mood, since she’s addicted to sadness now.  She’ll definitely get upset with him. If you want to watch, follow me.”**

Sir Toby grinned at the other two, and at the retreating figure of the genius mastermind.  Now that she wasn’t constantly scolding him for his drunken ways, he was noticing more and more how clever, fun—even attractive—she was.  Jovially, he called after her, **“I’ll follow you to the gates of hell, you sneaky little devil!”**

Sir Toby and Fabian followed Maria off, and after two heartbeats, Sir Andrew seemed to realize he was alone in the garden and scrambled after them, calling, **“I’ll come, too!”**


	6. Chapter 5 (3.1-3.3)

~*3.1*~

_This is the eleventh picture: We find ourselves observing a walled, garden courtyard, similar enough in design to the location of the previous scene that we feel comfortable in assuming that this is the courtyard before Olivia’s house. Viola, still in her ‘Cesario’ disguise sits on a bench just to one side of the door that leads to the main house, apparently engrossed in watching Feste and three or four of the local street musicians, who are frozen in a tableau, but apparently in the middle of an impromptu performance._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken and the picture springs to life, and we begin to hear and appreciate the song of the musicians as it now becomes audible…_

****

The performance was admittedly percussion-heavy, but the two musicians—armed with a mandolin and ukulele respectively—were holding their own as they improvised a fun, bouncy melody to the lively rhythm their compatriots were providing for them. They finished with a flourish, and Viola applauded appreciatively, beaming. The other musicians bowed or curtsied, then departed for their usual corners and Feste swept the bowler hat off of his head and held it out to Viola hopefully, but she simply smiled at the jester and shook her head. With an expression of disgust, he replaced his hat.

Viola knew then, that she had insulted the fellow, but she had seen him con enough money from Orsino and the other servants to know he was in no want of gold. Though she was in no way fond of his methods, she was an admirer of his quick wit, and thus in hopes of further demonstration, and to soften the blow of her withheld coin, she called to the young man: **“God bless you, my friend, and your music too. Do you make your living playing that drum?”** She knew the answer would be negative, but she wanted to see what game he would play with her words, nor was she in that disappointed.

 **“No, sir, I live by the church,”** Feste replied, defaulting on his usual form of payback—flippancy and back-handed insults. He’d seen this fellow around town, had heard that this mere boy fancied himself a clever word master as well, and relished this opportunity to show the would-be wit up.

Viola couldn’t suppress a smile even as she asked, **“Oh, you’re a clergyman?”**

 **“No, I live by the church because I live in a house, and my house is by the church,”** Feste replied, receiving only a merry laugh in reply. Admittedly, that exchange hadn’t been as insulting, but the next...

Viola shook her head at the ready retort, finally managing to give the fool this credit: **“I bet you’re a happy fellow who doesn’t are about anything.”**

 _A common misconception_ , Feste couldn’t help but thinking, and his impression for Orsino’s messenger boy was not improved. **“You’re wrong, sir, I do care about something.”** It took more effort than normal to keep his tone light, and he marveled this Cesario was getting to him in a way that Malvolio never did. **“But I’ll admit I don’t care for you. If that means I don’t care about anything, you should disappear right now, since you’re nothing.”**

Viola noted the insult, but made effort not to rise to the challenge. She had a mission, after all. **“Aren’t you Lady Olivia’s fool?”**

 **“No sir,”** Feste shot back. Thinking this another game, and knowing how Olivia thought of this arrogant lad, he continued: **“Lady Olivia won’t have anything to do with foolishness. So she won’t have a fool until she gets married. I am not her fool. I just make words into whores for her.”**

_A crude way of putting it, fool, but you do more than that—do you not?_ **“I saw you at Count Orsino’s recently.”**

**“Foolishness is all over the world, just like sunshine. I think I saw you there, wise man,”** the curly-haired jester shot back, stalking back towards the small bench, certain his meaning would not be missed this time.

Indeed, it was not, and Viola stood. **“Oh no, if you’re joking around with me, I’m leaving.”** Then, remembering the fool was simply doing his job, as she had to do hers, she relented slightly. **“Wait, here’s a coin for you.** ”

His mood improved, Feste took the coin. He still didn’t deem the young man as intelligent as he was purported to be, but since he felt he came out of the exchange the victor, he couldn’t resist a parting shot: **“Next time God sends out a shipment of hair, I hope he gives you a beard!”**

 **“Oh, I know. Seriously, I’m dying for one,”** Viola replied lightly, but her stomach had twisted violently, afraid for a second that the plain-clothes jester knew her secret. To herself, she whispered the clarification that kept her from feeling like a liar: **“I mean, I’m dying for a man who _has_ a beard; I don’t want one to grow on my chin.” **Returning her attention to Feste and her reason to be there, she asked, **“Is Lady Olivia inside?”**

For his part, Feste was not done garnering what gold he could from the young visitor. **“If I had two of these coins, do you think they’d breed more coins?”**

 **“Yes, if you kept them together and invested them. You’re a very clever beggar,”** Viola answered, withdrawing the second coin, but as Feste reached out his hand, she pulled her own back, giving the curly-haired young man a significant look.

The jester held eye contact for a heartbeat longer, before nodding slightly. Perhaps he’d underestimated this messenger’s determination, if not intelligence. **“My lady Olivia’s inside, sir,”** he admitted. **“I’ll tell them where you come from, though I don’t know who you are or what you want. I’d say I was ‘out of my element’, but that phrase is overused, so I’ll I’m ‘out of my air.”** The young man then placed the coin in the outstretched palm, and Feste gave a small, mocking bow before turning on his heel and entering the house, still not completely convinced as to what Olivia saw in the young messenger.

Viola watched him go, impressed at the skill he had displayed. **“This guy’s wise enough to play the fool, and only clever people can do that,”** she mused as she sat back down again, awaiting Olivia’s response. **“He pays attention to the mood and social rank of the person he’s jesting with, and also to the time of day. His job requires as much effort and skill as any wise man’s occupation could.”** Thus much praise she could afford to him, though she still disapproved of his wanton manipulation of Orsino’s current mood.

Any further musings were cut short by the arrival of two men—one of whom she recognized as the drunkard who’d first met her upon her first voyage to this house, though he now seemed sober, and the gangly one behind him with a small book in hand was a complete stranger to her.

The two were, of course, Sir Toby and Sir Andrew, who’d overheard the message Feste had been sent inside with and were determined to show up the would-be suitor. At least, Sir Andrew was so determined—Sir Toby was along for the show. Nevertheless, he was the first of the three to speak: **“Hello, sir.”**

 **“Hello to you too, sir,”** Viola replied standing once more, before looking expectantly to the unknown man.

Sir Andrew checked the meaning of a passage in his book before saying in what he thought was a dignified tone (but only sounded pretentious): “ ** _Dieu vous garde, monsieur.”_** _‘May God protect you, sir.’_

Viola smiled brightly, French having been her favorite language to learn—she loved the way the words had felt, rolling off her tongue, and gave the appropriate reply: **_“Et vous aussi. Votre serviteur!”_** _‘And you too, sir. I’m at your service!’_

Sir Andrew blinked at that for a moment, the words having gone so fast his slow-working mind had been unable to catch them. Desperately, he flipped a few pages, hoping to find inspiration, but ultimately abandoned the attempt, shoved the little booklet into his pocket, and stammered out, **“Oh, good. I am too.”**

Recognizing the disaster for what it was, Sir Toby tried to cover by pretending he two had come with some other business than this flimsy attempt at showing off and showing up. **“My niece would like you to come into the house, if your business here has to do with her.”**

 **“I’m heading for your niece, sir. She’s the reason I’m here,”** Viola affirmed, but made no movement towards the door, as the path was blocked by the two men.

Sir Toby realized his mistake, and moved to one side, elbowing Andrew to do the same. In another attempt to cover his mistake, He made a low, mocking bow, saying in a tone that dripped with condescension: **“Taste your legs sir. Please go inside.”**

Viola blinked, for once, taken aback. **“Taste my legs?”** she repeated, slightly mystified. **“My legs understand me, but I don’t understand what ‘taste your legs’ means.”**

 **“I mean please go into the house, sir,”** Sir Toby replied in the same derisive tone.

Viola tried to muster back the ground she felt she’d lost by forcing a confident tone. **“I will.”** But the sight of two approaching figures, that of the Olivia and her serving maid, Maria, changed Viola’s intention. Gesturing to them, she airily declared **“But now we don’t have to!”** She waited until the two women emerged into the courtyard, before bowing herself and saying dutifully, **“A beautiful and accomplished lady, may the heavens rain odors upon you!”**

 **“This young man’s classy,”** Sir Andrew grudgingly admitted in a low voice, impressed in spite of himself with the easy way the flattering words had flowed from the tongue of the young man. **“Rain odors,”** he repeated under his breath, deciding: **“that’s good.”**

Knowing how desperate Orsino’s pleas could seem and in an effort to maintain his dignity as well as hers, Viola continued in the same easy, gracious tone. **“My message is not for anyone else to hear, my lady. It’s only for your willing and** deserving **ear.”**

Every word in Sir Andrew’s ear was ringing proof that he was outclassed, and the gawky man all but wilted. **“’Odors’, ‘willing’, and ‘deserving’!”**

For her part, Olivia also wanted the coming moment to be a private one. **“Close the garden door and leave me alone to hear this message.”**

The servant and the two knights left, each with a different level of hesitation, and all for different reasons, but at last Olivia was alone with the duke’s messenger. She hoped it was not lost on the young man that she no longer wore her black mourning gown, but now wore a fetching ensemble in white and lavender, more appropriate for the spring season. **“Give me your hand, sir.”**

The young man obliged, leading her over to the bench he had occupied previously, saying, **“I give you my obedience and my humble service, madam.”**

 **“What’s your name?”** Olivia asked, desperate to know who it was that had so stirred her heart.

Viola, having braced herself for the coming minefield of a conversation, answered, **“Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess.”**

 **“My servant!”** Olivia exclaimed, hoping she had caught the boy in a telling slip. **“You’re not my servant, young man. Your Count Orsino’s servant.”**

 **“But he’s your servant, so everything that’s his must be yours, too,”** Viola replied, taking the given opportunity to attempt the Duke’s suit again. **“Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam.”**

 **“Oh, please, I’m begging you, don’t mention him again,”** Olivia sulked, disappointed at the turn the conversation had taken. Then, brightening: **“But, if you want to tell me that someone else loves me, I’d enjoy hearing that more than I’d enjoy listening to angels sing.”**

The hint was not lost on Viola, who was instantly on the alert and defensive both. **“My dear lady—”**

Misunderstanding the messenger’s hesitation and fear for disapproval, Olivia felt suddenly uncertain, and said all in a rush: **“Please, let me say something: After you cast your magic spell on me last time, I sent you a ring. I fear it was a mistake, sine I tricked my servant, myself and you, too. What could you possibly think of me? For someone as intelligent as you the situation must be clear enough. So let me hear what you have to say.”**

Viola stared at the woman who could’ve been her rival, so changed now from the haughty figure from their last encounter, and all for the love of a dream... **“I feel sorry for you.”** It was all she could say, and it was the simple truth.

 **“That’s a step in the direction of love!”** Olivia pointed out, hopefully.

Trying to push Olivia away from her self-defeating fantasy, Viola took a harsher tone this time. **“No, not at all. It’s a perfectly ordinary experience for us to feel sorry for our enemies.”**

 **“It’s much better to be destroyed by a noble enemy than by a cruel and heartless one,”** Olivia observed sadly, standing and making her way slowly towards the house as she heard a distant chiming sound. **“Listen to that, the clock’s scolding me for wasting my time. Don’t worry young man, there’s the way back home for you, due west.”** If this ‘Cesario’ styed any longer, Olivia was unsure if she could hold herself within the bounds of modest restraint.

Also eager to leave the situation before words or actions went too far, Viola began to take the offered ticket out. **“Then west is where I’m headed! I wish you all the best.”** A few paces down the garden path, though, a sense of obligation made her stop and turn back. **“You have nothing to have me say to Duke Orsino?”**

Losing the battle with her own self-control, Olivia turned away from the door into her house and began to advance on the young servant. **“Stay, please; tell me what you think of me!”**

 **“I think you’re denying what you really are,”** Viola answered. _You claim to be in deep, reverent mourning and to care nothing for the advances of Orsino. But in our two brief meetings, you have shown yourself to be a girl reveling in the freedom of being master of yourself at last who finds it fun to toy with the feelings of others, but now those same feelings are toying with you._

Petulantly, almost childishly, Olivia retorted: **“If that’s true, I think the same thing about you!”**

 **“You’re right,”** Viola admitted, backing away from the advancing lady, aware that she was being pressed back toward the house. **“I am not what I am.”** _All the more reason for you to drop this undignified and ill-fated suit!_

 **“I wish you were what I want you to be!”** Olivia cried as Viola’s back was pressed to the wall.

Fear disguising itself as anger, Viola found herself all but shouting back: **“Would it be better if I were that, instead of what I am?”** And yet, what anger she had was mainly self-directed, it was her own attempt to be clever that had landed in her current straits. **“I wish I were something better, because right now I’m a big fool.”**

 **“Oh, how beautiful he is even when he’s angry and full of contempt!”** Olivia muttered to herself, before mustering up all her courage to declare: **“Cesario, I swear by spring roses, by virginity, honor, truth, and everything, I swear I love you. Put two and two together and realize that asking for love is good, but getting it without asking is much better!”** On the last, frantic assertion, she dropped to her knees and seized his leg.

Viola froze, the touch washing her in nothing short of utter panic, and her voice was shrill as she cried out indignantly: **“And I swear by my youth and innocence that I’ve only got one heart and one love to give, and that I’ve never given them to a woman and never will!” **she wrenched her leg free and glared coldly down at the other lady’s kneeling form. **“So goodbye, my lady. I won’t ever come to complain about my lord’s love for you again.”** _However he tries to convince me to,_ she silent owed to herself as she stalked from the garden, face set for the return journey to Orsino’s palace.

 **“Then come again for another reason!”** Olivia called after the retreating figure, scrambling to her feet. She was trying to convince erself, as much as she was the hard-hearted youth. **“You might still be able to make yourself fall in love with me, the person he loves, even though you hate me now.”** Receiving no reply, and blushing furiously, she hurried once more into the house.

* * *

~*3.2*~

_This is the twelfth picture: the first room in Olivia’s house that we first saw: the main hall with bench to one side, hall leading to the rest of the house out one way, and to the main entrance another. It is empty, devoid of people, and the angle of the sunlight streaming through the tall windows near the ceiling stands as testament that little to no time has passed since events in the garden courtyard have unfolded._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken as Sir Andrew, hat on head, cloak over shoulders, and suitcase in hand, strides into the room from the direction of the house, pursued closely by Sir Toby and the servant, Fabian._

****

 **“No, I won’t stay a second longer!”** The tallest of the three men cried, mid-argument with the two at his heels.

Sir Toby wasn’t strictly speaking worried—Sir Andrew had threatened to leave before—but he was curious to know which argument he had to apply to get his favorite dupe to stick around. **“Why are you leaving, my angry friend?”** He gave Fabian a significant look, and the young man caught on quickly.

**“Yes, you have to tell us why, Sir Andrew.”**

The lanky, awkward fellow dropped his suitcase and turned to face the other two men, whining childishly: **“Well, because I saw your niece Olivia treat the count’s messenger better than she’s ever treated me. I saw it in the orchard!”**

Ah, so a variation on the usual theme, this time—the duke’s servant rather than the duke himself. Ah, the possibilities...

**“But did she see _you_ there the whole time, old boy? Tell me that.”**

**“Yes, she saw me quite clearly,”** Sir Andrew all but wailed, hardly seeing how the current conversation was in any way useful, but wanting his friends to be sympathetic to his broken heart.

At Sir Toby’s nudge, Fabian took up the argument thread, latching on to what he hoped the bald knight had meant him to say. **“Well, that proves she’s in love with you.”**

 **“Are you trying to make fun of me?”** Sir Andrew cried, getting closer than he knew to the truth.

 **“No,”** Fabian rushed to assure the knight, speaking as quickly as his mind could formulate the persuasive argument. **“She flirted with the messenger boy to exasperate you and make you angry and jealous. You should have run up to her, unleashed a few excellent quips and rendered the young man speechless.”**

Sir Toby gave Fabian a subtle nod as Sir Andrew wilted under this—now he would take up the joke. **“Well then, improve your situation with a show of courage! Challenge the count’s young servant to a fight! Hurt him in eleven places! My niece Olivia will notice, and let me tell you, no matchmaker in the world can get you a woman faster than a reputation for courage.”**

Struggling to keep a serious tone and sage countenance, Fabian nevertheless managed to do so as he said, **“It’s really the only way, Sir Andrew.”**

 **“Will either of you give him the message that I’m challenging him to a duel?”** Sir Andrew asked, the quaver in his tone evidence enough that he still was not eager for the hypothetical fight.

Sir Toby took it upon himself to fire the younger knight up. **“Go ahead and write it down. Make your handwriting look like a soldiers. Be pointed and brief. It doesn’t need to be witty so long as its eloquent and imaginative. Now get busy!”**

Sir Andrew started to run back to his room, suitcase forgotten, when he suddenly turned and stumbled back, and on his top hat to keep it still atop his head. **“Where will I find you when I’ve finished it?”**

 **“We’ll come find you in the bedroom. Go on,”** Sir Toby assured the other knight, watching as the improbable figure tore back into the house.

Fabia also watched Sir Andrew go, shaking his head in disbelief. **“This precious little guy is putty in your hands, Sir Toby.”**

 **“He must like me,”** Sir Toby agreed, grinning mischievously, **“since he’s let me spend two thousand of his ducats.”**

 **“His letter’s going to be hilarious,”** the servant observed, before giving the knight a side-long glance. How far would this joke really go? **“But you’re not going to deliver it, are you?”**

Sir Toby raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t had this much fun in so long—since before he started drinking so heavily. Why would he stop now? **“Never trust me again if I don’t! And by all means, see if you can get the young man to answer it.”**

Fabian nodded his agreement, chuckling a little already at the prospect of their cowardly friend and the young messenger—who didn’t seem to be any kind of fighter—being forced to face each other, as someone else approached them from the direction the knight had run, shaking her head at the fact she’d nearly been run over by a figure that had seemed to have been all flapping arms and gawky legs.

Having spotted Maria approaching, Sir Toby called, **“Here comes my little bird!”**

To Fabian’s surprise, his cousin didn’t object to the pet name, but jumped straight into the message she had come to deliver. **“Listen if you want a good laugh—and I mean a side-splitting one—then follow me. That gullible idiot Malvolio...”** A laugh interrupted her statement, and all she managed to gasp out was: **“He’s wearing yellow stockings!”**

 **“With crisscrossed laces?”** Sir Toby asked, hardly believing that their joke had worked so well.

Maria released another peal of laughter as she nodded, this time joined by the other two men. When at last she had breath enough to speak, the young woman reported, **“You’ve never seen anything like it. I can hardly keep myself form throwing things at him. I know that my lady’s going to end up hitting him. And when she does, he’ll imagine she’s flirting with him!”** Her hazel eyes were dancing with humor that some might’ve considered spiteful, but any that knew her history with the stuffy steward knew this was revenge a long time in coming.

Knowing Andrew was safe for the moment, Sir Toby felt safe turning his attention to their first prank. **“Come on, take us to him,”**  he cried eagerly, and both men followed the girl back into the house, doing their best to quiet their laughter so as not to give themselves away.

* * *

~*3.3*~

_This is the thirteenth picture: It is the Illyrian market square, full, as before, with improbably dressed people selling impossible wears, the whole scene lit with early afternoon’s light that lends a cheerful, bright atmosphere to the manic energy trapped in frozen tableau._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken as a white-suited figure with duffel over one shoulder enters, talking amiably with a man striding beside him in a sea captain’s uniform._

****

 **“I really didn’t want to inconvenience you,”** Sebastian insisted to Antonio, **“But since you seem to enjoy helping me, I won’t nag you to stop anymore.”**

Relieved the argument was won at last, Antonio gave his younger friend all the explanation he could, without dwelling on the dark past on such a bright day. **“I couldn’t stay behind after you left. I was worried about what might happen to you while you were travelling, since you’re not familiar with this area, and it’s rough and unwelcoming to a stranger with no guide.”**

In awe of his friend’s devotion with little knowledge as to the reason, the younger man could only say **“My friend Antonio, all I can say is thank you.”** Then, taking a moment to take in the odd sights of the square where they had halted, he felt himself, in spite of grief, fill with an adventurous sort of excitement. **“Anyway, what should we do? Should we go see the sights in the town?”**

 **“We can do that tomorrow, sir,”** Antonio countered, with a half-smile. Lads of this age were all the same, thinking of exploring before practical necessities. **“First, we should make sure you have someplace to stay.”**

Sebastian chafed at such a dull errand—couldn’t the other man see how lively and strange this place was? If anything could help him find some sort of joy after so hard a loss, it would be a place such as this strange country! **“I’m not tired,”** he protested, **“and night is a long time away. Come on, let’s go see the sights.”**

Another young explorer pleaded with Antonio in his memory, but he had to deny both—it was his place to be the responsible one, and there were other reasons for his caution. **“I’m sorry, but I can’t,”** he admitted, and at his young friend’s incredulous look, he resigned himself to having to tell part of his story, part of his shame. **“You see, it’s dangerous for me to walk these streets. Once, in a battle at sea, I did a lot of damage to Count Orsino’s warships. If they arrested me here, it’d be the end of me.”**

 **“You probably killed a lot of his men?”** Sebastian asked, regarding the sailor beside him with new eyes.

 **“No, I didn’t do anything as violent as that,”** Antonio all but growled. _Though I wish that I had—and I would have been justified, too._ **“The whole quarrel might have been resolved since then, when we repaired what we stole from them—which most of our city did, for the sake of friendly trade relations. I was the only one who refused to give back what I stole.”** _For what does trade matter when compared to blood and honor? I am not the one in the wrong, though I be the one in danger._ **“That’s why I’ll pay dearly if they find me here.”**

As the situation sunk in and awareness of his friend’s danger dawned, all thoughts of exploring left Sebastian’s mind. **“Then don’t make yourself too conspicuous,”** he warned, feeling guilty at having insisted oncoming to Illyria and dragging the other man into such peril.

Antonio nodded his agreement, then struck on a plan that might please them both. He pulled out a small purse of coins and handed them over to the lad in the white suit. **“Hang on, here’s some money for you. The best place to stay around here is an inn called The Elephant, in the suburbs of the city. I’ll arrange for our** lodging and **meals while you enjoy yourself and educate yourself by looking at the town. You’ll find me at The Elephant.”**

Sebastian had understood all of that except... **“Why are you giving me your purse?”**

 **“Maybe you’ll see some little trinket you want to buy,”** Antonio explained with a shrug. **“I doubt you’ve got enough money for little purchases like that.”**

Honored at his friend’s trust and generosity both, Sebastian pocketed the money, resolving not spend any of it. **“I’ll hold onto your money and leave you for an hour,”** he decided, picking up his bag and striding towards one end of the market square.

 **“We’ll meet at the Elephant,”** Antonio called as loudly as he dared.

Sebastian acknowledged the reminder with a little wave and an answer of, **“I remember,”** but Antonio’s dread didn’t decrease any. He had the strangest feeling that something was going to go badly wrong, perhaps before the day was even over...


	7. Chapter 6 (3.4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a single-scene chapter, all I will say is, too long. Too much stuff happens and it took me so long to write during a very busy time. I mean, I love the humor of this scene, but a break or two would’ve been nice. Ah well, complaint time over, on with the chapter!

~*3.4*~

_This is the fourteenth picture: Once more we are in the courtyard before Olivia’s house, but the couch from inside has been moved out and placed near the center of the path, overshadowed by a flowering tree in full bloom. Olivia stands center, as if taking in the scene, While Maria seems frozen in the middle of moving things around, setting some sort of scene._

_As soon as we take this in, the picture springs to life as Maria turns from having placed the couch and Olivia turns a worried face to her._

****

 **“I have sent for him. He says he’ll come,”** she gasped out, hardly believing the count’s messenger, Cesario, would so consent after she embarrassed herself so much the time before, but she was never one to shy away from a second chance. **“What kind of food should I serve him? What presents should I give him? It’s easier to buy young people than beg or borrow them.”** Maria held her peace, knowing Olivia wanted to vent more than she wanted her servant’s advice. **“Oh, I’m talking too loud—Where’s Malvolio? He’s very serious, which is right for someone in mourning like me. Where is Malvolio?”**

Maria grinned at the scene sure to soon unfold, but squelched it as she turned back to her mistress, donning an expression of hesitant unease. **“He’s coming, Madam but he’s acting very strangely. He must be possessed by the devil.”**

 **“Why, what’s the matter with him?”** Olivia stared in surprise at the other girl, simply unable to picture Malvolio acting any other way than his somber, serious self. The world itself might shatter if her dark-suited steward ever did away with his own, precious dignity. **“Is he talking nonsense?”**

 _Well, yes, but better you hear it for yourself._ **“No, he just _smiles,_ ” **Maria answered, stressing the word as if to strike dread into her lady. **“He’s clearly disturbed!”** She hoped the higher pitch in her voice came across as fearful, rather than the barely-suppressed laugh that it was.

 **“Ask him in here,”** Olivia ordered, then, as Maria went into the house to do so, she sat on the couch and mused to herself: **“I’m as crazy as he is, if sad craziness and happy craziness are equivalent.”** She heard people enter behind her and began to say as she turned: **“What’s going on, Malvoli-OOOO!”**

The last sound came out in a shriek as she beheld a most improbable sight: her consistent, serious steward was wearing an absolutely gaudy outfit with puffed sleeves, sequins, a black hat with silver spangles, and, most garish of all: canary-yellow tights with thick black laces crisscrossed all the way up his legs. His pasty face looked all the worse for his outfit change, and for the smile so wide it looked painful.

 **“Hello, sweet lady,”** He called jovially as he strode out into the courtyard, followed by Maria and the ladies-in-waiting. He strode quickly into the courtyard, daring to sit on the couch beside Olivia, no longer caring about the impropriety of it.

For her part, Olivia was so confounded by the scene before her that she had no idea what to say—she couldn’t process what had just happened, much less say anything coherent—and so when she did at last find her voice, all she could say was, **“You’re smiling? I sent for you about a sad occasion.”** The smile was the least of the oddities, although made almost frightening when considered in concert with all the rest.

Thinking Olivia’s comment had been a test, and remembering the content of the letter well, Malvolio responded, **“Sad, my lady! I could be sad if I wanted to be—these crisscrossing laces do cut off the circulation in my legs a bit, but who cares? I think we know whose fancy handwriting that was.”**

Maria had to bite her lip to stifle the shriek of laughter—she’d hardly dared to hope her trick would work so well! And yet, bitter thoughts echoed in the back of her mind, not quite drowned out by the merry ones: _You’re willing to act this silly for the chance at greater power, wealth, and social status, but you were never so bold for the sake of the one you claimed to love._

 **“For heaven’s sake, why are you smiling like that?”** Olivia demanded, hoping in spite of evidence there was any sort of rational explanation for this irrational behavior.

Maria was on the alert in an instant—should Malvolio reference the letter any plainer than he already had, the joke would be out before she got any mileage out of it. Therefore, to preserve herself, and in hopes of making Malvolio look even worse, she broke in as if defending Olivia, **“Why are you acting so brazen toward my lady?”**

Malvolio ignored the serving maid as one would ignore a chattering bird in a forest, never taking his eyes from Olivia even as she stood, trying to put some distance between them. **“’Don’t be afraid of greatness,’”** he quoted. **“That was well written.”**

 **“What do you mean by that, Malvolio?”** Olivia asked, backing up as her steward also stood, that ghastly smile still fixed in place as if forgotten and left behind by some neglectful owner.

**“‘Some are born great—’”**

Olivia glances back at the other women in the garden, but all looked as shocked as she. Maria even seemed to be choking in surprise at the change Malvolio had gone through. **“What?”** she gasped out, the single syllable all she could manage.

 **“‘Some achieve greatness—’”** he continued, still advancing as Olivia continued to retreat.

**“What are you saying?”**

**“‘And some have greatness thrust upon them!’”** Malvolio cried, backing Olivia back to the couch where she sat, stiff and startled. **“‘Remember who liked your yellow stockings—’”**

 **“Your yellow stockings?”** Olivia gasped, glancing down at the garments in question.

**“‘And wanted to see you with laces crisscrossed over your legs.’”**

Olivia shook her head, standing again and moving away from the apparently oblivious madman. **“This is completely insane!”** she wailed, only to be interrupted by the arrival of a very confused, low-ranking servant.

The woman bobbed a hesitant curtsey, taking in the scene with wide, frightened eyes, before turning to her mistress and making her report: **“Madam, Count Orsino’s young messenger has returned. It was hard to get him to come back, but he’s here now, waiting for you.”**

Olivia glanced between servant and steward, remembering her original thought of meeting the young man here in the garden, before quickly abandoning it. **“I’ll go to him,”** she chirped, and the servant nodded, returning into the house. Olivia turned to Maria, a begging, beseeching look on her face. **“Maria, take care of this poor fellow here. Where’s my cousin Toby? Have some of my servants take care of Malvolio.”**

Maria nodded, bobbing a curtsey as she hurried off to find Toby, delighted that the knight would be allowed to partake in the joke as well. Olivia hurried out after the servant, eager to have an excuse to concentrate on a far more pleasant matter and person than the frightening scene she left behind. The ladies in waiting followed her out, leaving Malvolio alone to muse over his version of events as they had just played out.

 **“Oh ho! Look at me now!”** he said to no one as he took his place on the bench, still smiling painfully. **“No less a person than Sir Toby, Lady Olivia’s own relative, is going to take care of me.”** For once, the mere mention of the knight’s name didn’t bring up any disgusted thoughts, or sense of dread at the coming encounter. **“And, when she left just now, she said ‘Take care of this poor fellow here.’ ‘Fellow!’ Not ‘Malvolio,’ but ‘fellow!’ Everything’s going perfectly. Not the tiniest ounce, not the littlest insignificant amount of trouble or bad luck could ruin it—what can I say? Nothing can come between me and the fulfillment of all my hopes. Well, God is responsible for that, not me, and he deserves thanks.”**

Almost before his self-directed speech was over, he spotted Maria returning with her cousin Fabian as well as Sir Toby in tow, but turned slightly so as to ignore them—whether or not Olivia was there, her orders from the letter would be carried out to the word!

As the three had agreed, sir Toby came charging into the garden, looking around and crying in fine stentorian bellow: **“Where is he, for God’s sake? I don’t care if all the devils in hell crammed together to possess him, I still want to speak to him.”**

 **“Here he is, here he is,”** Fabian called, before cautiously edging closer to the ‘madman’. **“How are you, sir?”**

Malvolio sniffed disdainfully, before turning away again, calling over his shoulder: **“Go away. I don’t want to see your face. Let me enjoy my privacy. Go away.”**

 **“Ooh, listen to the scary devil speaking from inside him,”** Maria cried in feigned fear, before turning to the knight. **“Didn’t I tell you? Sir Toby, Lady Olivia want you to take care of him.”**

Malvolio brightened, thinking the countess had meant to provide him opportunity to insult Toby, as he was directed in the letter. **“Ah-ha! Does she?”**

Sir Toby turned to the other two, gesturing for them to be quiet, instructing them as if an expert in dealing with possessed souls. **“Come on, come on! Calm down, calm down. We need to treat him gently. Let me take care of this.”** Turning back to the unwitting fool, he called in a tone of forced cheer: **“How are you, Malvolio? How are things? Come on, man, just say no to the devil. Think about it, he’s the enemy of mankind.”**

For the first time, Malvolio began to register the other servant’s supposed fear and some of Sir Toby’s words began to sink in, confusing the steward. **“Do you even know what you’re talking about?”**

 **“Look at that!”** Maria cried, grabbing the knight by the arm. **“He acts insulted if you say bad things about the devil. I hope to God he’s not bewitched!”**

 **“What are you saying, mistress?”** Malvolio demanded, standing to tower over the girl, as she let out a small shriek and hid behind Sir Toby, who thrust out a protective arm to keep the taller man at distance.

Sir Toby turned to the girl behind him, for a moment mirroring the devilish smile Malvolio could not see, even as he whispered loudly in a voice meant to be overheard: **“Please, keep quiet. This is not the way to act. Leave me alone with him.”** Turning back around to the increasingly confounded blonde, the bald man began to speak towards the level of Malvolio’s stomach, as if addressing something inside rather than the man himself. **“So how are you, my pretty little bird? How are you doing in there, sweet little chicken?”**

 **“Get him to say his prayers Sir Toby, get him to pray!”** Maria called, glancing back to see that Fabian was pretending to cower behind her as she pretended to cower behind the knight. _Nice touch._

Malvolio’s mouth dropped open—she, of all people, spoke to him of Godly things. **“My prayers, you hussy?”**

 **“No, I’m telling you, he refuses to hear anything about religion!”** Maria wailed convincingly, committed enough to their prank to make no comment on the insult.

This was becoming too much for Malvolio, who began to storm towards the house. **“Go hang yourselves, all of you! You’re all lazy and shallow. I’m not like you. I have a higher future waiting for me. You’ll know more about it later.”**

He then stormed inside, leaving the three in the courtyard finally free to release the paroxysm of laughter they’d been holding in by willpower alone through the whole exchange.

 **“Is it possible?”** Sir Toby asked, when at last he could breathe again.

Fabian straightened up with effort, still panting a little from his last laughing fit as he declared: **“If this were a play, I’d complain it was unrealistic. We’re really going to drive him crazy!”**

Maria smirked at the thought. **“The house will be so much quieter,”** she responded glibly, reminding her co-conspirators yet again she was not a woman one could safely cross.

Suddenly, Sir Toby hit upon an idea to carry the prank even further: **“Come on, let’s put him in a dark room and tie him up. My niece already thinks he’s insane. We can go on like this, punishing him and having some fun, until we’re tired of it. Then we can have mercy on him.”**

 **“Here’s more insanity for us,”** Fabian remarked as he looked up to see Sir Andrew’s figure approaching.

The gangly knight waved as he saw the, stumbling over his own feet in excitement and waving a piece of paper in his hands. **“Here’s the challenge, read it. It’s bursting with fighting words!”**

 **“Is it that aggressive?”** the servant asked, his tone of doubt completely lost on the taller man.

 **“Yes, it is, I think,”** Sir Andrew replied before thrusting the paper into Sir Toby’s hand. **“Just read it.”**

The shorter knight took the letter, crossing over and sitting on the bench as he skimmed the missive. Maria followed him and sat beside him, trying to read over his shoulder, and he smiled as he felt how close she was sitting to him. He cleared his throat as if preparing to read aloud when really, he was trying to re-focus his mind.

**“‘Young man, whatever you are, you’re a real scum bucket.’”**

**“Nice, very courageous,”** Fabian remarked as the other two men came up behind the two on the bench, and Sir Andrew beamed at the praise, missing the little hesitations that were indicators that Fabian was choosing his words extremely carefully. Sir Toby ignored the interruption and kept reading.

**“‘Don’t even ask why I call you that, because I won’t give you any explanation.’“**

Once more Fabian jumped in with forced praise in order to keep the prank going.  **“That’s a good thing to put in—it keeps you from getting into trouble with the law.”**

 **“‘You come to see the lady Olivia, and she’s kind to you. But you’re a complete liar. That’s not why I’m challenging you to a duel.’”** There, Sir Toby was forced to pause, glancing over at the young woman beside him as if to ask if she could follow that warped logic, but he only received a shrug and a confused expression in reply.

Fabian, too, struggled with that bit. **“Nice...and short...and full of good sense,”** Then, in a voice that only Sir Toby and Maria could hear, the servant added, **“Or should I say nonsense?”**

Sir Toby grunted in agreement before continuing to read the ‘challenge’. **“‘I’ll ambush you on your way home, and if you’re lucky enough to kill me—’”**

 **“Good,”** Fabian commented without thinking, earning him disbelieving looks form the other three before Sir Toby turned back to the letter, now not even bothering to hide his incredulous tone as he read aloud.

**“‘You’ll be killing me like a common criminal, a mugger.’”**

In an effort to explain his last comment, Fabian rushed to point out: **“You still haven’t said anything incriminating. Good.”**

 **“‘Good luck,’”** Sir Toby read, grateful that this mind-numbing drivel was nearing its end at last, **“‘and may God have mercy on one of our souls. He may have mercy upon mine. But I have a better chance of surviving, so watch out. Signed, your friend, if you treat him right, and your sworn enemy, Andrew Aguecheek.’”** He fell silent then, exchanging disbelieving glances with Maria before mustering the energy to continue the prank. Turning to the other knight, he cried out with forced certainty: **“If this letter doesn’t make him fight, I don’t know what will. I’ll give it to him.”**

Maria had to roll her eyes and the imagined confrontation, but to be helpful, she pointed out: **“You might have a great opportunity to give it to him right now. He’s conducting some business with my lady, and sooner or later he’ll leave.”**

 **“Go, Sir Andrew,”** the bald knight ordered, leaping to his feet. **“Look out for him in the corner of the orchard as if you were a sheriff’s deputy. As soon as you see him, draw your sword, and as you draw it, start swearing horribly.”**

 **“Don’t worry about me not swearing enough,”** cried Sir Andrew as he ran from the courtyard, presumably to fetch is sword, but, given his cowardly nature, it was just as likely he was about to start trying to avoid the coming fight already.

Once the dupe was out of hearing range, Sir Toby assured his still-stunned audience: **“I won’t deliver this letter. The young gentleman’s behavior shows that he’s sensible and has good manners. So this letter, which is so incredibly stupid and ignorant, isn’t going to scare him at all. He’ll just think an idiot wrote it.”** The others nodded, agreeing with both the assessment of Andrew and the hypothetical series of events. “ **But I’ll deliver Sir Andrew’s challenge by word of mouth, describing Sir Andrew as courageous in battle and convincing the young gentleman that Sir Andrew is furious, impetuous, and a skilled fighter (he’ll believe me because he’s young).”** That was met by two gasps of startled, surprised laughter, earning a smile form the knight. “ **This will make them both so afraid that they’ll kill each other just by looking at each other.”**

Fabian, ever on the lookout, was the first to spot the two approaching figures, and warned his cousin and the knight: **“Here comes the messenger with your niece. Leave them alone until he sets off home, and then follow him.”**

 **“Meanwhile, I’ll think of some horrible way to phrase the challenge,”** Sir Toby whispered back as the three made their way out of the courtyard, ceding the space once more to Olivia and Cesario.

Olivia shook her head, disappointed as much in herself as at her cold reception at the young man’s hands. **“I’ve said too much to someone with a heart of stone. I’ve foolishly jeopardized my honor and reputation.”** She then pulled a small cameo brooch form her reticule and held it out to the young man. **“Here, take this piece of jewelry. There’s a picture of me inside.”** When Cesario made as if to leave without it, she added, **“Don’t refuse it. It won’t annoy you like me, because it doesn’t have a voice. And I beg you, please come here again tomorrow. What could you possibly ask of me that I wouldn’t give you, as long as it didn’t damage my honor and self-respect?”**

Viola shook her head, no longer needing to nettle the lady—her own feelings were now punishment enough for how she’d treated Orsino. Still... **“Nothing except your true love for my lord.”**

 **“How could I honorably give him what I’ve already given you?”** Olivia shot back, no longer angry, but with a pleading desperation in her voice.

Viola took an instinctive step back, remembering the last conversation they’d had in that place. **“I’ll give it back to you,”** she assured the other woman. _Indeed, I have no use for it myself._

 **“Just come again tomorrow,”** Olivia pleaded. **“Goodbye.”** She turned back to the house, saying just as she was nearly inside: **“A devil like you could lead me to hell.”** And then she was gone, leaving the hapless messenger alone at last.

Viola did not have long to enjoy her solitude however, as she found herself approached by the bald knight from before and another man whom she did not recognize but seemed to be one Olivia’s servants.

 **“Hello, sir,”** Sir Toby called when he saw the boy had noticed them.

 **“Hello to you,”** she responded, wondering what more she’d be forced to endure that day before she could retreat at last to Orsino’s palace once more.

Hiding his mischievous glee behind a stern bearing, Toby launched into his prepared speech: **“You’d better think up a way to defend yourself. I don’t know what you’ve done to upset him, but someone has challenged you to a duel. Draw your sword and get on your toes, because your assailant is quick, skillful, and deadly.”**

 **“There must be some mistake, sir,”** Viola insisted, masking sheer terror with forced laughter. **“I’m sure nobody would have any reason to fight with me. I can’t remember anything I’ve ever done to offend anyone.”**

 **“You’re wrong about that, I assure you,”** Toby countered, and was rewarded by the dawning light of true fear in the lad’s blue eyes. **“So, if you value your life at all, be on your guard. Your opponent has enough strength, skill, and anger to outfight anyone.”**

Clenching trembling hands behind her back and wishing she’d never heeded any entreaty to return to this house— _this madhouse—_ Viola weakly enquired, **“But who is this person, sir?”**

**“He’s a knight, but when he’s fighting a civilian he’s a real monster. He’s killed three people, and he’s so furious right now that the only thing that will satisfy him is seeing you die.”**

Viola stared in shock at the two men before her, but her mind at least had begun to work again, even as it grasped at straws. **“I’m not a fighter. I’ve heard of men who pick fights with other people on purpose, just to see how brave they are. This man is probably like that.”**

 **“No, sir. He’s furious because you insulted him, and he has a right to satisfaction. So, go out there and give him what he wants.”** Sir Toby could hardly believe how well this was going—the poor fool bought every word. He hadn’t pulled a trick of this caliber over so reportedly sharp a dupe since before his time of heavy drinking began. He was beginning to remember the fun one could have, sober.

Valuing self-preservation over dignity at the moment, Viola turned pleading eyes to the older man as she all but begged, **“Please, do me this one favor: find out what I’ve done to offend this knight. It must be something I did accidentally.”**

 _What a perfect chance!_ Letting none of his delight reveal itself, Sir Toby instead nodded, saying formally. **“I will do so. Mr. Fabian, stay with this gentleman until I come back.”** With that, he made his way towards where he knew Andrew was waiting out of earshot.

So, the servant’s name was Fabian, then. Seeking another ally, and whatever aid he could render her, Viola turned to the brown-haired man. **“Excuse me, sir, do you know anything about this?”**

 **“I know the knight is furious with you, but I don’t know anything else about it,”** Fabian reported with feigned nonchalance. He doubted he could put any kind of frightening spin on Sir Andrew’s true motivations, so, like Toby, erred on the side of being vague and let the young man’s imagination do the work of scaring him.

Swallowing back the scream that would’ve been equal parts terror and frustration, Viola instead went with a more diplomatic reply: **“What kind of man is he?”**

 _And let’s not go with the honest answer here, _Fabian mentally noted. Aloud, he said: **“He really is the most skillful, bloodthirsty, and dangerous opponent you can find in Illyria.”** He made a show of taking in the lad’s true fear before offering in a gentle tone, **“I’ll try to calm him down for you, if I can.”**

 **“I’d be very grateful to you, if you did!”** Viola replied eagerly, a beatific grin splitting her face as the first rays of hope began to enter the situation. She followed Fabian around one side of the house just as Sir Toby rounded the other corner, spinning a tale to frighten the taller knight following behind him.

**“Wow, he’s a real devil. I had a round with him and his sword thrust is so deadly that you can’t even duck out of the way.”**

Sir Andrew turned around to leave then, stopped only by Toby’s hand on his arm as he babbled out, **“That’s it! I won’t mess with him.”**

Sir Toby had his work cut out, trying to stop his fellow’s retreat, and said hastily, **“Yes, but now there’s no way to calm him down. Fabian can hardly control him over there.”**

 **“Darn it!”** Sir Andrew cried, still glancing around as if to find means of physical escape. **“I’ll give him my grey horse Capilet if he forgets the whole thing.”**

 **“I’ll give it a try. Stay right here and try to look good. This may end without anyone getting killed,”** Sir Toby insisted. Then, as he turned away, he could not resist muttering under his breath, **“I’ll ride your horse just like I ride you.”**  He then looked up to see Fabian leading the other reluctant dueler to the prearranged spot and pulled the servant aside, whispering, **“He’s given me his horse to try to avoid the fight—I’ve persuaded him that the young man is a fighting machine.”**

Fabian laughed before making his own report in as quiet a voice: **He’s as terrified of Sur Andrew. He’s pale and hyperventilating, as if a bear was chasing him.”**

The two conspirators shared matching grins for a moment before turning to the white-clad figure who stood, pale and trembling, as far from the equally terrified knight as was possible in the enclosed space.

**“There’s nothing you can do about it, sir. He insists on fighting with you because he swore he would. So, draw your sword so he can carry out his vow. He promises not to hurt you.”**

Sir Toby’s words being only as reassuring as he meant them to be (which is to say, not much), the terrified thought crossed Viola’s mind: **_God help me! If anything happens, I’m going to have to tell them exactly how unmanly I am._**

As Toby turned to speak with Andrew, Fabian gave the seemingly off-handed comment, **“Back off if he seems really furious,”** and was rewarded by a barely-audible whimper from the boy beside him.

 **“Come on, Sir Andrew,”** Sir Toby grunted, all but pushing the other man towards the center of the impromptu dueling space, **“there’s nothing you can do about it. The gentleman insists on fighting a round with you, for the sake of his honor. But as a gentleman and a soldier he’s promised me he won’t hurt you. Come on, get ready.”**

Two reluctant combatants drew their swords and held them out, a good six inches apart.

 ** _I hope to God he keeps his promise!_** Sir Andrew thought as a muttering Sir Toby took a careful hold of the swords and forced their tips to cross, in true dueling form.

As the knight then placed his own blade under the two of theirs in preparation to start the fight, Viola called across to the other man, **“I swear to you, I don’t want to be doing this.”**

Sir Toby sharply raised his sword, parting the crossed blades and stepping out of the way, awaiting the coming spectacle. For her part, Viola had accepted that there was no escaping the coming fight, so resolved to do her best to imitate her brother’s fighting technique—as much as she remembered from the few times she’d watched him train.

Sebastian’s philosophy was that a good offense was the best defense, so she took a small jump forward, rapier extended. This show of aggression was too much for Sir Andrew, who turned to run, only to be stopped by Fabian forcibly turning him back to face his adversary. The tall knight’s arm, blade in hand, swung out with the momentum of the turn, and Viola barely managed to duck under it. It passed safely over her head, but Sir Toby was forced to take an undignified leap backwards to avoid the weapon’s tip.

Coming full circle once more, Sir Andrew attempted to thrust violently at the young man’s right leg. Viola panicked at the sight of incoming point and, rather than attempt a parry, leapt out of the way, causing Sir Andrew to stumble past her. The two clumsily turned, shaking with fear, now on opposite sides of the little square.

However long the fight might have progressed in such a fashion may never be known, for a lone figure in a sea-captain’s uniform, passing by the courtyard’s gates that opened to the city spotted the in-progress duel, charged towards the small cluster, and leapt between both combatants, to the surprise of all assembled.

 **“Put your sword away,”** Antonio barked in atone that’d once made his sailor’s tremble. Could he not leave Sebastian alone for more than an hour without the young man getting into trouble? **“If this young gentleman has offended you, I’ll take the blame for it. If you’ve offended him—”** Antonio paused, drawing his own sword and brandishing it threateningly before finishing, **“I’ll fight you.”** The tall man, the one who’d been attacking Sebastian, fainted at the end of his declaration, leaving the one-time captain very much confused, but he had little time to wonder as the shorter, bald gentleman approached him, weapon in hand.

 **“You, sir? Who are you?”** Sir Toby demanded, furious their little game had been interrupted by someone who dared to think it was a _serious_ matter. Could he not have his fun?

Antonio still didn’t know how Sebastian could’ve gotten himself tangled up in a duel so quickly, but surely the young man did not yet know the law against such fights in these parts. He had to get him out of this engagement and end it quickly before the authorities showed up. The lecture he was already preparing could come later. **“I’m just a good friend of his. In fact, I’d do even more than what you’ve heard him promise to do.”**

 **“If you’re someone who gets into fights, I’ll fight with you,”** Sir Toby promised, just as Sir Andrew recovered, took in the current situation and fled to a safer position next to Fabian.

Viola also took several steps back as he unknown rescuer began his own fight—and with much more skill than she. His sword flashed a silver arc, cleaving downwards towards Sir Toby’s head, only to be stopped by the knight’s parry. Sir Toby might not have fought much in recent months, but he at least knew his way around with a blade. The two exchanged a few cuts, thrusts, and parries, but neither had quite found their rhythm yet when they were halted by Fabian’s warning shout: **“Oh, Sir Toby, stop! The police are here!”**

 **“I’ll be back for you very soon,”** Sir Toby growled to the stranger in front of him as he sheathed his sword and retreated a few steps towards the house, followed by Fabian.

Viola found herself standing next to Andrew and hissed in a terrified whisper, **“Please sir, put up your sword, please.”**

 **“I certainly will sir,”** He agreed quickly as they both did. He began to join his two friends, calling as he fled: **“And as for what I promised to you, I’m as good as my word. You can ride him easily, and he responds well when you pull the reins.”**

Before Viola could even try to decipher _that_ remark, two of the Duke’s officers marched into the courtyard, focusing on the one man who stood alone in the center, sword still in hand. The first officer, a giant of a man whose uniform was far too small tuned to his fellow and barked, **“This is the man, do your job.”**

 **“Antonio you’re under arrest on orders of Count Orsino,”** the second, smaller man fairly drowning in _his_ uniform recited mechanically as he strode forward.

Antonio tried for a winsome smile, though his whole body tensed in a fight-or-flight reaction. **“You must be mistaking me for someone else, sir.”**

 **“No sir, not at all,”** the first countered in his heavy, slow voice, **“I recognize your face perfectly. Take him away, he knows I recognize him.”**

Antonio raised his sword as if to fight his way out, and both officers drew their own blades, pointing them straight at chest and throat. The tense standoff lasted only a fraction of a moment before the dark-haired man thought better of it, lowering his hand and proffering the hilt of his sword to the smaller man, who wrenched the weapon from his grip. **“I have to obey,”** Antonio admitted, fearing what would happen if he fought and Sebastian tried to intervene on his behalf, as the lad would likely try to do. The larger officer seized his arm in a hard, painful grip, but before he was dragged away, the seaman turned to his young friend, trying for a smile. **“This has happened because I came looking for you, but there’s nothing I can do about it now. I’ll take what’s coming to me. But what’ll you do now that I have to ask you for my purse back?”** The figure in white stood, staring at him, and so he added with some attempt at comfort, **“You look so confused. Don’t worry about me.”**

 **“Come on sir, let’s go,”** the smaller man ordered, still holding Antonio’s sword.

For his own part, the feeling of dread he’d already noted was growing in Antonio’s core as he turned once more to his friend, a little desperation seeping into his tone as he asked again, **“Really, I must ask you for some of that money.”**

 **“What money sir?”** Viola asked, finding her voice at last. She didn’t understand what was going on, or why this stranger seemed to think he knew her, but she did know that he’d been found by the officers because he’d stopped to help her. **“I feel sorry for you in this situation, and I want to thank you for the kindness you’ve shown me here, so I’ll lend you some of my money, though I don’t have much. Take this. It’s half of all my money.”** She offered him the paltry few coins, whishing she had more on her and already determining to intercede with Orsino on this man’s behalf, to the best of her ability.

 _Does he think this is the time for jokes?_ Antonio could believe neither his eyes nor his ears, and dread was quickly turning to outraged indignation. **“Are you really going to pretend you don’t know me now? After everything I’ve done for you, you’re refusing to help me? Don’t make me more miserable than I am. I might do something really weak and unmanly, like listing the kind things I’ve done for you.”**

 **“I don’t know any kind things you’ve done for me, and I don’t recognize your voice or your face,”** Viola insisted.

 **“Oh, my God!”** Antonio cried, staring at the figure in white as if the boy had turned into a monster in front of his eyes.

The second officer, having no patience for the scene before him, tried to grab Antonio’s other arm with free hand while saying, **“Come on sir, please. Let’s go.”**

 **“No, I’ve got something to say,”** Antonio insisted, wrenching his right arm free and speaking to all witnesses, turning his back towards the friend he thought he knew. **“I saved this young man’s life when he was half-dead, and nursed him back to health lovingly and tenderly. I devoted myself to him, since he looked noble and good.”**

His audience, however, proved unsympathetic. **“Why should we care? Time’s passing. Let’s go!”**

The one-time captain continued unabated, however, turning back to the traitor. **“But oh, what a deceiver he turned out to be! You don’t live up to your good looks, Sebastian. You look good but you’re bad on the inside, where it counts!”** He paused, awaiting a reaction, but when Sebastian didn’t even grow angry at this insult, Antonio’s anger quickly faded, replace with resignation. He’d been made the fool, but by who and for what purpose was something he could not even begin to guess.

The taller officer, sensing the fading resistance, nodded to his fellow to take up his grip again. **“The man’s going crazy. Take him away. Come on, sir. Come on.”**

 **“Take me,”** Antonio replied, all fight draining out of him, now that he knew it was hopeless.

Viola watched the two drag her strange ally away, muttering to herself as her agile mind began to put the pieces together, forming a picture so wonderful she hardly dared to hope. **“He was so angry I feel he must really believe what he was saying. I don’t believe it. Yet I wish I could. Oh, please be true, please let it be that this man has mistaken me for you, my dear brother! He called me Sebastian. My brother looked like me, and he dressed the same way that I’m dressed now—in the same colors,** **with the same accessories. Oh, if it turns out to be true that he survived, then that storm was kind, and the ocean was full of love!”** Still not quite daring to hope that such was the case Viola began to half-run back to Orsino’s palace—she had to convince the duke to spare his man, if only so she could ask him about Sebastian!

Meanwhile, in another corner, two knights and a servant were having a whispered council. Sir Toby had one hand on Sir Andrew’s shoulder, forcing him to crouch so he could whisper in his ear: **“He’s a very dishonest, puny boy, and more cowardly than a rabbit. He abandoned his friend here in an emergency, and even pretended he didn’t know him. That shows he’s dishonest. As for his cowardliness, ask Fabian.”**

 **“He’s a coward, a total coward,”** the servant quickly put in.

Sir Andrew stiffened, always ready to fight a man more afraid than he. **“By God, I’ll go after him again and beat him up.”**

 **“Please do,”** Toby insisted. **“Beat him up well but don’t draw your sword.”** That last thing he needed was for Sir Andrew to get arrested before the joke was anywhere near finished.

**“I swear I will—”**

The oath was left unfinished as the gangly man ran awkwardly out of the courtyard, down the path. Fabian shook his head, turning towards the remaining knight. **“Come on, let’s go see what happens.”**

 **“I’ll bet you anything that nothing will happen once again,”** Sir Toby answered as the two men followed their dupe at a much more comfortable pace, leaving the courtyard empty of people at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. This is the second longest chapter yet, and it was one freaking scene! But it’s finished now, leaving us with only two to go. An interesting side note on the two fights (and yes, I know I didn’t really describe the second one that much): I was actually the one who choreographed all sword fights in this play (there’s one more coming up in the next chapter), and the one that was the hardest for me was the one between Sir Andrew and Viola, since I had to clearly show the audience how hopeless they both were at fighting without putting either actor in danger, and that’s harder than it sounds, trust me!


	8. Chapter 4 (4.1-4.3)

~*4.1*~

_This is the fifteenth picture: It is once more the garden before the door to Olivia’s house, where much of the last few hours have been spent. But for once, it is empty and peaceful, and the lengthening shadows make it clear that part of the day has passed since we last intruded here._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken as a figure in white charges in, heedless of the surrounding beauty and quiet in his attempt to evade the man in the bowler hat behind him. Sound and action enters the scene with the two, and we are landed in the middle of their argument._

****

 **“Are you trying to tell me I wasn’t sent to get you?”** Feste asked the duke’s messenger boy, more than a little out of breath, but trying to hide it behind his delight that this boy had finally found it in him to attempt to jest.

Sebastian glared back at the persistent fellow who’d herded him so far after their chance encounter in the market. He really didn’t have the patience for this now, he had to go and meet Antonio before the other man could begin to worry. Thus, his tone was sharper than normal as he barked, **“Oh, who cares, you’re acting like a fool. Leave me alone.”**

 **“Good for you, holding out on me like this!”** Feste shot back, wondering why it was the one playing the joke, and not the one on the receiving end, who was losing his temper first. Still, if this boy had not the skill or experience, to continue on his own, Feste had the time to play teacher, now that he’d brought him so far. **“No, I don’t know you, and my lady didn’t send me to get you, and I’m not supposed to tell you to come speak with her, and your name is not Master Cesario, and this is not my nose, either. Nothing is what is.”**

 **“Oh, please, go somewhere else to blab your nonsense, you don’t know me,”** Sebastian all but growled back, glancing around the garden, and trying to imagine making an apology to the owner of this place for trespassing should the two be discovered before he could extricate himself.

Feste spared a moment to give the boy an incredulous look before turning to an imaginary audience for his next question. **“Blab my nonsense?”** Turning his attention back to Sebastian and returning to his errand, the curly-haired young man demanded, **“Now please stop being so strange and tell me what exactly I should blab to my lady. Should I blab to her that you are coming?”**

 **“Please, fool, go away. Here’s money for you.”** Sebastian fished a coin out of the purse he’d been given—a small one, since it was not his own purse and this fellow was grating on his already frayed nerves—in hopes that the money would satisfy this pest. **“If you stay any longer, I’ll give you something worse,”** he added, letting his hand drift to the hilt of his sword.

The movement was not lost on Feste who took a hasty step back and made a small bow, wondering in the back of his mind what could have happened to so sour the boy’s normally mild and light-hearted attitude. **“Well, well. You’re a generous man.”** Before he could say more, the two were joined by Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Fabian, though the latter two were hanging well back, and Feste decided it best to follow their lead, stepping even further away from the figure in the white suit.

Andrew, on the other hand, charged right in, delivering a short, sharp, open-handed blow to the boy’s face as he primly spat, **“Well, sir, we met again? Take that.”**

Sebastian had no idea what this fellow meant, but a blow was an insult, and had to be paid. Thus, without drawing his sword, he struck out at the taller man repeatedly, driving him back across the garden as he yelled, **“Well, then, take that, and that, and that. Is everyone here insane?”**

Terrified at the sudden change in the previously cowardly boy, Sir Andrew’s fragile nerve snapped and he turned tail and fled.

Sir Toby on the other hand stepped forward. Could this lad not see how afraid Andrew was? Why did he need to keep striking him—the initial insult had been repaid! If it was mere arrogance: why, then the taller knight could assert himself over any mere boy. **“Stop right now or I’ll throw your dagger over the roof!”** he bellowed, seizing Cesario by the arm as Fabian, sensing danger, stepped even further back.

The wisest man in the garden, and the one called ‘fool’ by all, began to slip towards the house, muttering to himself: **“I’m going to tell my lady about this right away. I wouldn’t be in any of your shoes if you paid me.”**

His exit and words went unnoticed by the four other men, and Sir Toby found himself struggling to hold the incensed boy back. **“Come** **on sir, stop!”**

 **“No, leave him alone. I’ll get back at him another way,”** Sir Andrew called form his hiding place behind Fabian. **“I’ll sue him for assault and battery, if there’s any justice in Illyria. It doesn’t matter that I hit him first.”**

 **“Let me go!”** Sebastian shouted, but the older man had a strong, firm grip on his sword arm.

 **“No sir, I won’t let you go,”** Sir Toby insisted.

With a growl of frustration, Sebastian bent his knees quickly, dropping his height a little before wrenching his shoulder backward and back up again, pulling it free of Toby’s grasp. **“I’ll get free of you!”** he called as he did so, able at last to draw his sword on his unprovoked attackers. **“What are you going to do now? If you insist on trying my patience nay further, then take out your sword right now!”**

Sir Toby did so, needing no further prompting. Fabian and Andrew fell back, clearing the way for the third duel of the day to take place. Almost before they did so, Sebastian cut quickly to Toby’s right leg, trusting he would be lighter and quicker than the older man, who he already knew most likely had the advantages of strength and experience. Still, he’d trained often and long, and though he could hold his own in civil discourse and debate only a little worse than his sister, he knew he could prove himself with steel as well as any other man.

Toby managed to parry the strike and riposte with one of his own, but he had to marvel in the change that had occurred in this boy since a few hours prior. _It’s like he’s another person a together!_

However, it seemed that one of Fate’s decrees for the day was that all fights undertaken in that place were not to be played out to their conclusion but were to be interrupted, for a lady’s shriek from the entrance to the house stilled both blades.

**“Sir Toby! I order you to stop!”**

Both men faltered, and the bald knight glanced to the house, surprised to hear so sharp a tone from his niece, who stood at the entrance, flanked by the jester. **“Madam!”**

 **“Are you always going to be like this?”** Olivia demanded, ignoring her kinsman’s interruption as she boldly marched between the two combatants, causing both men to quickly sheath their swords and stare at the girl in almost-frightened surprise as her rant continued, unabated. **“You’re an ungrateful slob who’s only fit to live in the mountains, in caves far from civilized people where you won’t ever need good manners! Get out of my sight!”** She briefly turned to the startled figure in white behind her, saying in an altogether different tone: **“Dear Cesario, please don’t be offended.”** Then, noticing her uncle take a step toward them from the corner of her eye, she whirled back to face him, shouting again: **“—Get out of here, you barbarian!”**

She then watched as her uncle and his two lackeys fled the garden at last, before turning pleading eyes and tone to the boy behind her. **“Oh, my dear friend, please don’t get too upset by these rude people who bothered you. Come with me to my house. I’ll tell you about all the pointless, clumsy pranks this thug uncle of mine has come up with, so that you can laugh at this one. You have to come with me.”** She reached out a hand to him, and as he pulled back almost instinctively, she tried for weak smile. **“Please don’t say no. Damn that Toby! He made my heart leap for you.”**

Sebastian stared at her, wide-eyed. He didn’t know what to make of events, but this latest turn was not an altogether unpleasant one, he had to admit. This lady, whoever she was, was quite beautiful, and she had an air of confidence and authority he’d rarely seen in any other maiden. **_What does this mean? Where is this all going? Either I’m insane or this is a dream. I hope these delusions continue. If this is a dream, let me keep on sleeping!_**

Olivia again put her hand on his arm, and this time he did not shy away. **“Come with me, please,”** she asked again, but knowing how he had previously responded, she could not help but add: **“I wish you would do what I ask!”**

 **“Madam, I will,”** Sebastian answered, deciding the wisest course of action was to play along and let events take their course. He’d wanted adventures and distractions after all, and it seemed this house might offer plenty of both.

Olivia’s eyes widened, and for the first time since Feste had told her what was happening in the garden, she began to wonder if this was a dream. **“Oh, say it, and mean it!”** she cried joyfully, and as she led him back towards the house, the duke’s messenger, for once, did not resist.

* * *

~*4.2*~

_This is the sixteenth picture: a dark, dingy room not unlike a dungeon, that we have not seen before. The walls are all stone, and what little light there is, filters in through small windows near the ceiling, implying that we are in a basement of some sort. The room is, truth be told, more of a corridor, and while the door at one end is an open archway leading into still-more darkness, the other is shut tight with a door of iron, a door which has one small, barred window near head-height, though, at the moment, we cannot see the unfortunate within._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken as a flickering light approaches through the open doorway, eventually revealing itself to be a lantern held in one of Maria’s hands. In her other, she holds a wide-brimmed hat. The young maiden is followed by Feste, who is in the middle of donning a long black robe while holding a fake beard in one hand. The two are obviously in the middle of a whispered conversation, and as sound returns to the scene along with movement, we are landed in the middle of it._

****

 **“No, I’m telling you, put on this robe and beard,”** Maria hissed, barely holding back her laughter as she urged the fool to hurry. **“Make him think you’re Sir Topas the priest. Be quick. Meanwhile I’ll get Sir Toby.”**

As she vanished back the way they’d come, Feste finished buttoning the robe, slipped the itchy fake beard over his face, and carefully adjusted the hat as he mused to an imaginary audience, **“Well, I’ll put it on and disguise myself. I wish I were the first person who ever told lies in a priest’s robe.”** The sound of footsteps approaching behind him told him the joke was soon to advance. **“Here come the conspirators.”**

 **“God Bless you, Mr. Priest,”** Sir Toby greeted in a hushed but jovial tone.

Feste gave small bow and replied in a hoarse, affected voice: **“Bonos dies, Sir Toby.”**

The knight and the maid laughed at the impersonation of one of the local parsons, eager to see the effect such a caricature would have on one, poor ‘afflicted’ soul. **“Go to him, Sir Topas,”** Sir Toby urged.

Indicating for the others to remain quiet while he went to work, Feste approached the iron door, calling out in ‘Sir Topas’s’ voice: **“Quiet down in this prison!”**

 **“The fool’s a good actor, a good fool,”** Sir Toby observed to the young woman beside him, who nodded in agreement as they both waited by the lantern for the coming show.

Malvolio’s pale face, now smudged with the inescapable grime of the basement could be seen at the barred window. He’d lost both his ridiculous hat and sickly grin, but not his almost-frantic energy and desperation. **“Who’s shouting?”** he called, unable to see well in the gloom.

Feste carefully positioned himself so that all Malvolio would ever be able to glimpse of him would be the brim of his hat and maybe the hint of his beard as he answered, **“I’m Sir Topas, the priest. I’ve come to visit Malvolio the lunatic.”**

 **“Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas,”** Malvolio began to beg at the prospect of help, **“please, go to my lady Olivia—”**

 **“Get out, demon! Why are you bothering this poor man?”** Feste interjected, his grin completely obscured by the hat and beard. **“Can’t you talk about anything besides ladies?”**

Maria had to clap a and to her mouth to hold back the bark of laughter that wanted to escape at such a stroke of genius comeback—that, and Sir Toby’s whispered commentary: **“Well said, Mr. Priest.”**

**“Sir Topas, nobody’s ever been as badly treated as I’ve been. Good Sir Topas, don’t believe I’m insane. They’ve shut me up here in horrible darkness!”**

It didn’t take much thought to figure out how to spin this—and Malvolio’s head along with it. Feste was enjoying his chance to payback every insult the uptight steward had dished on him over the years, and the many times he’d attempted to get the jester on Olivia’s bad side. **“You should be ashamed of yourself, Satan, you liar! You call this house dark?”**

 **“I’m not insane, Sir Topas,”** Malvolio insisted in a voice too desperate to be thought of as sane. **“I’m telling you, this house is dark.”**

 **“You’re wrong, you madman! There’s no darkness except ignorance,”** Feste countered, knowing all too well how much Malvolio detested non sequiturs and nonsense statements.

Never does a man sound crazier than when he is trying prove that he is in his right mind, but Malvolio, convinced as he was of his own mistreatment, could not let the matter drop. **“I tell you, this house is as dark as ignorance. And I tell you, no man has ever been treated worse than me. I’m no more insane than you are.”**

 _In your constantly voiced opinion, then, you are far from sane,_ Feste thought, but aloud, his counter was merely a farewell: **“Well then, goodbye. Stay in the dark. Goodbye.”**

He then ran back to the two by the lantern and began removing his disguise, all ignoring Malvolio’s pleading calls of, **“Sir Topas, Sir Topas!”**

 **“The brilliant Sir Topas!”** Sir Toby whispered in greeting as the curly-haired young man rejoined them, clapping him on the back with his free hand. **“Now talk to him in your own voice, and tell me how he is.”** Then, the memory of the afternoon’s other misadventures occurred to the knight, suddenly stealing his delight in the joke. **“I wish this trick would be over. If we can find a convenient way to let him go, I want to do it. I’m in so much trouble with my niece that it wouldn’t be safe to let this prank go to its conclusion.”** He was conscious of Maria’s concerned gaze on him, and abruptly came to a decision on a matter he’d been giving a lot of thought to in the past few days. Turning to the girl and speaking in a more serious tone than any she’d yet heard him use, he said, **“Come to my room later on.”** He then turned and left the other two standing in the corridor.

Maria looked to the jester, as if asking if he knew what was on the older man’s mind, but Feste could only shrug in confusion. Maria glanced at the direction Sir Toby had gone, back to the fool, then hurried out after the knight, wondering if he meant to finally leave the house altogether. For some reason, she found herself dreading such news, and dreading the ensuing farewell even more.

Alone in the gloom with none but a much-vexed Malvolio for company, Feste marveled at how quickly the mood could change. He no longer had an audience to perform for, but then, he still had his own vengeance to extract, and his own spirits to lift. Therefore, for no one’s pleasure but his own, he decided to carry on the show and strode down the short corridor towards Malvolio’s cell, singing as himself: **_“Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, tell me how your lady is.”_**

 **“Fool!”** Malvolio called, rocketing to his feet and back to the window, peering desperately around. **“Fool, I say!”**

 **“Who’s shouting?”** Feste called in an exaggerated show of ignorance lost on the frantic steward.

**“Good fool, good jester, I’ll make it worth your while if you get me a candle, and a pen, ink and paper. You have my word as a gentleman that I’ll always be grateful to you.”**

_You are not much of a gentleman, and thus I will not take you at your word or grant you mercy._ **“Master Malvolio?”**

He didn’t care if it was the fool he despised—he didn’t even care if it was Sir Toby, at this point, so long as he was given aid. **“Yes, good fool!”**

 **“Poor man, how did you go insane?”** Feste asked in a comically exaggerated show of concern, which again went over the head of his one-time tormentor.

 **“Fool, no one has ever been as mistreated as me,”** Malvolio wailed. **“I’m completely sane, Fool. I’m as sane as you are.”**

Feste arced an eyebrow at that—not that Malvolio could see—and answered with the glaringly obvious comeback, albeit in the voice of complete sincerity: **“As sane as me? Then you really are insane, if you’re no saner than a fool.”**

Desperate to convince one human soul that he was, in fact, in his right mind, the desperate prisoner repeated his earlier complaint: **“They treat me like garbage here. They keep me in darkness, and send idiotic priests to talk to me and do everything they can to insist I’m insane.”**

 **“Be careful what you say—the priest is here!”** Feste called, on an impulse running over to his shed disguise and throwing beard and hat over one fist to make a sort of puppet which, in the dim light and with the poor angle provided by the barred window, was enough to fool the desperate prisoner. Slipping into ‘Sir Topas’s’ voice, the jester called, **“Malvolio, Malvolio, may heaven make you sane again! Try to sleep, and stop your pointless babbling.”**

**“Sir Topas!”**

Feste ignored the interruption, continuing in the fake voice: **“Don’t talk to him, my friend.”** Returning to his own tone, he made meek reply to his own hand, **“Who, me, sir? Not me, sir. God be with you, Sir Topas, goodbye.”** To which the puppet responded, **“Well then, amen.”** Feste then dropped his disguised hand from view, removed the hat and beard, casting them back towards the robe as he gave the final words: **“Goodbye, sir.”** Then he waited, to see what Malvolio would do.

He barely made it to the count of five before the steward, desperate to know that he was not alone in the dark, called out: **“Fool? Fool? Hey, Fool!”**

 **“Please sir, be quiet,”** he made a show of whispering as he stood back in the steward’s view, glancing over his own shoulder, as if afraid of being overheard. **“What do you want to say, sir? I’ve just been scolded for speaking to you.”**

 **“Be a nice fool and help me find a candle and some paper.”** Feste held his tongue, rankling that, even in such a circumstance, Malvolio addressed him as one would a child! **“I tell you, I’m as sane as any man in Illyria.”**

Returning patronizing tone with patronizing tone, the jester replied, **“If only you were, sir.”**

 **“I swear I am!”** Malvolio cried, filled with an insane zeal to prove his sanity. Returning to his original entreaty, he added, **“Get me some ink, paper, and a candle. I’ll write a letter and you’ll take it to my lady. You’ll get a bigger reward than you ever got delivering a letter before.”**

With the intuition of a skillful jester, Feste knew now that this part of the joke had run its course, and it took only a moment’s consideration—disguised as a moment’s hesitation—to decide the next best course of action. **“I’ll help you—I’ll get you a candle and paper and ink.”**

With that he began to make his way back to the costume on the floor and the exit beyond, pursued by the words of the foolishly grateful ‘madman’: **“Fool, I’ll repay you for this favor.”**

_Don’t worry about that—this is payment enough. But I’ll take your coins and your flattery as proof to which of us is the bigger fool._

* * *

~*4.3*~

_This is the seventeenth picture: Once more the garden between the Lady Olivia’s gate and door, and from the angle of the light and shadows, it is clearly past noon, but nowhere yet near the end of the day. The bench from earlier is gone, presumably put back inside, and a peaceful air hangs over the place like the scent of flowers._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken as a white-clad figure walks slowly into view from the direction of the house, looking around with a sense of dazed wonder._

****

Sebastian shook his head in wonderment, glancing down at the ring he’d been given only a few moments before as he mused aloud: **“This is the air, that’s the glorious sun. I can feel and see this pearl she gave me. I may be dazed and confused, but I’m not insane.”** But while he was certain of his own sanity, he was not completely well at ease, and he glanced about the courtyard as if seeking an answer to his next question. **“Where’s Antonio, then? I didn’t find him at the Elephant. But he’d been there before me, and they told me he’d gone out looking for me. I could really use his advice right now.”** It hardly seemed believable that such a young, beautiful, intelligent, and capable woman would fall in love with him in less than an hour’s span, and he didn’t understand why she kept calling him ‘Cesario’, but he’d come to assume it was some sort of pet name or nickname. He’d warned her that, though he came from a noble family, his father’s fortune was nothing more than a memory, but she’d waved it aside and claimed that, if he were content to settle in Illyria, her own fortune and house would be enough for both of them.

 _It seems we were both right, sister—a cure for our misfortune was marriage, though it did not have to be yours._ That was a dangerous thought—close to the territory of tears—but before he could travel so far, he spotted Olivia approaching him, followed by a black-robed figure. **“But here she comes,”** he observed to himself, unable to restrain a smile. He could not claim to know her well, but the coming union was already more based on love than many arranged marriages.

 **“Don’t be angry with me for acting so quickly,”** Olivia pleaded, still not knowing what could’ve changed the youth’s mind, but not willing to question her reversal of fortune, in fear that it would vanish. **“If your intentions toward me are honorable, come with me and this holy man into the chapel over there, where you can soothe all my worries by making your marriage vows to me.”** Then, knowing the Duke’s reputation for a fearsome temper, she added: **“The priest will keep it secret until you’re ready to make the news public and we can throw a full marriage celebration that befits my social standing. What do you say?”**

Though he did not understand how he had found himself in such a situation, Sebastian knew himself well enough to know his own heart, and thus his answer: **“I’ll follow the priest and go with you; and after I’ve sworn to be faithful, I’ll be faithful forever.”**

 **“Then lead the way, Father,”** Olivia told the priest, before taking Cesario’s offered arm. Still hardly daring to hope this was more than a pleasant dream, the young lady cast her gaze heavenward and muttered a prayer: **“I want the skies bright and shining to show approval of our wedding.”**

With nothing more to be said, the three made their way into the small chapel, and none looked back.


	9. Chapter 8 (5.1)

~*5.1*~

_This is the eighteenth picture: Once again, we are in the garden courtyard before Olivia’s door, but now in the late evening, if the lengthening shadows are any true indicator of the passage of time. Other than that, little to nothing seems to have changed about this location since the previous scene, and it seems that the resolution of this little drama and its parallel stories will take place in this place between the public road and private residence._

_We take all this in a few brief moments, then the spell is broken and the picture springs to life, as Feste, a single piece of paper in hand, makes his way out of the house, deftly evading Fabian’s pursuit and grabbing hand._

****

As the jester dodged him for the seventh time, Fabian fell back onto good-natured begging: **“If you’re my friend, you’ll let me see his letter!”** he called, desperate for the laugh that Malvolio’s ‘mad ramblings’ would surely bring.

Feste stopped, turning to face the servant behind him, nodding gravely. **“Dear Mr. Fabian, do me another favor first.”**

 **“Anything!”** The brown-haired young man promised, already starting to reach out towards the offered letter.

The jester abruptly snatched it away and turned, calling over his shoulder: **“Don’t ask to see this letter.”**

Fabian froze, frowning as the fool’s improbable ‘logic’ sunk in. Knowing he was beaten, he stalked a few feet away, grumbling, “ **That’s like giving someone a dog as a present, then asking for the dog back in return.”**

Feste hid a smile from his friend—truly, though Fabian rarely had a quick retort, he was at least quick enough to _get_ the joke in the first place, thus he had a higher standing in the local fool’s regard than he knew. Before either man could continue the jest or begin a new one, they were interrupted by the arrival of none other than Duke Orsino himself, flanked on one side by the white-clad figure of Cesario, on the other hand by his first messenger Valentine, and followed by Curio and a handful of other servants, all dressed in the same exotic finery Orsino had come to favor in recent years.

The Duke’s eyes quickly rested on the two men who both had turned to face him, and he asked in a commanding, but not unfriendly tone: **“My friends, are you all Lady Olivia’s servants?”**

 _All of us are, but we are not all,_ the Feste couldn’t help but think, though aloud he only said: **“Yes, sir, we’re part of her entourage.”**

 **“I know you,”** Orsino declared after regarding the speaker. Smiling, he asked. **“How are you my friend?”**

Now certain the duke was, in fact, in the mood for jests and fancy speech, Feste doffed his bowler hat and made a bow. Standing upright, he grinned broadly and declared. **“I’m better off because of my enemies, and worse off because of my friends.”** The last part was aimed at Fabian for sake of the jest and out of no ill-will, and the servant huffed and took a few steps away.

 **“You mean it the other way around. You’re better off because of your friends,”** Orsino corrected, not knowing what prior conversation he’d interrupted, but determined to be a diplomatic peace maker.

The fool shook his head, refusing to relinquish his joke before the punchline had been delivered. **“No sir, worse off.”**

 **“How can that be?”** Orsino asked, eager to hear how the fool would spin this one. Nor was he to be disappointed...

**“Well, my friends praise me and make me _look_ like an idiot, while my enemies tell me straightforwardly that I _am_ an idiot. My enemies help me understand myself better, which is an advantage, and my friends help me lie about myself, which is a disadvantage.”**

Orsino chuckled along with his entourage, shaking his head as he drew a coin from the pouch at his belt—such skill deserved reward. **“You won’t be worse off because of me: here’s some money.”** Then, remembering why he had come there in the first place, he added, **“If you tell your lady I’m here to speak with her, and bring her out with you when you come back, you might make me more generous.”**

 **“I’ll be back, sir, to wake up your generosity,”** the fool replied, making his way back into the house once more.

As those outside awaited his return, Viola spotted the two officers form before approaching, still leading the familiar stranger between them. Clearing her throat to get the duke’s attention, she pointed out the trio and reminded him of her report: **“Here comes the man who rescued me, sir.”**

Orsino turned as the man was led before him—rather than letting himself be dragged in an undignified manner, the dark-haired man marched stiff and straight, despite having his hands cuffed behind him at this point. The duke marched closer, stopping a few feet from the prisoner. **“I remember his face well, though the last time I saw him it was black from the smoke of war.”**

 **“Orsino this is the same Antonio who captured the ship the _Tiger_ during the battle where your nephew Titus lost his leg. We arrested him in streets,” **the first officer reported. **“It’s as if he didn’t care we are on the lookout for him here.”**

Desperate that the man not suffer on her account—since it was in helping her that he was caught, Viola again told her story, though in shorter summary this time: **“He was kind to me and took my side in the fight. But then he said strange things to me. He might be insane. I don’t know what else it could be.”** Well, she _did_ , but that was an ‘else’ she dared not to hope for.

 **“You’re a famous pirate!”** Orsino challenged. **“A master thief of the seas! What made you stupid and careless enough to come visit the people you robbed and slaughtered?”**

That challenge was too much for Antonio to continue to hold his tongue—more had been lost in the battle for the _Tiger_ than a measly leg, and it was not Antonio that had taken a young boy’s life! **“Orsino, sir, I was never a thief or a pirate, though I admit I was your enemy for good reasons.”** He turned his glare upon Sebastian—who seemed to be quite friendly with Orsino: did his treachery know no bounds of modest limit? **“I came here because someone put a spell on me. I rescued that ungrateful boy next to you from drowning. For his sake I ran the risk of revisiting this unfriendly town, and I drew my sword to defend him when he was in trouble. But when the police caught us, he was clever and treacherous enough to pretend he’d never met me before. He acted like someone who barely knew me. He refused to give me my own wallet, which I had lent him only half an hour before.”**

 **“How is that possible?”** Viola muttered, wondering how a tale could be both so truthful and so false—the duel went exactly as he explained, though all the rest were wild fancies and blatantly untrue.

Orsino, no unfair man, frowned at his one-time enemy. What he knew of Cesario told him the boy would never act in such a way, and yet Antonio spoke as one passed all bounds of doubt. But the timelines just didn’t match... **“When did he come to town?”**

 **“Today, my lord,”** Antonio answered without hesitation. **“And for three months before that, we spent every day and night together.”**

There was a muttering in the duke’s entourage—Cesario had been amongst them for three months, so how could this fellow possibly think the lad had been with him? Viola, for her part, held her tongue, but could not deny the hopeful rush in her hart at his words—was it possible?

But whatever was to come of that confrontation was not to be known, for the arrival of Olivia and her ladies-in-waiting put an end to it prematurely. Orsino noted her entrance and dramatically declared. **“Ah, the countess is coming! An angel is walking on earth.”** He turned his attention back to Antonio, waving his hand dismissively. **“But as for you, mister, what you’re saying is insane. This young man has worked for me for three months; but more about that later.”**  The duke turned to the officers, snapping the order: **“Take him away.”**

As the two complied and Antonio did not resist, Olivia drew near to the duke’s entourage, neither noting nor commenting on the previous drama. **“What can I give you, my lord, except the one thing you can’t have?”**  she asked, knowing full well the reason for his visit. This would end his suit once and for all, and though she’d enjoyed their little game, the time had come to turn her mind to other matters, and so she turned to her husband and began a different rebuke: **“Cesario, you missed your appointment with me.”**

**“Madam?”**

Viola’s confused question was uttered in the same moment that Orsino began to speak again. **“Dearest Olivia—”**

 **“What do you have to say for yourself, Cesario?”** Olivia demanded, before glaring at the duke’s interruption. **“My lord, please.”**

Viola has to lock her knees to resist the urge to step quickly out of the way. **“My lord wants to speak,”** she explained, looking away. **“It’s my duty to be quiet.”** Perhaps Orsino could say or do something that would cause Olivia to forgo her doomed pursuit.

It seemed that the duke had to be dealt with first, then. Why did Cesario still defer to Orsino? Now that he was her husband, he was a count, and the duke’s near-equal. Still, she admired his honor and duty, she supposed. **“If what you have to say is anything like what you used to say, it’ll be as repulsive to my ears as wild screams after beautiful music.”**

 **“Are you still so cruel?”** Orsino demanded, taken aback that his own presence did not change the woman’s tune. Didn’t this show how devoted he was to his suit?

Olivia shook her head, smiling at Cesario, who would best understand her meaning. **“I am still so faithful, my lord.”**

 **“What, faithful to being mean and nasty? You’re not polite! I breathed from my soul the most faithful offerings to your ungrateful altars that any devoted person has ever offered.”** Orsino had not wanted to believe the rumors that circulate through his palace, even reaching his own ears—that Cesario, his faithful, capable and intelligent Cesario had wooed Olivia for his own sake instead of his master’s—but here they seemed confirmed; he had not missed that secretive smile.

Rejection turned at once to rage, and the duke whirled quickly, grabbing a startled Cesario by the arm as he all but roared over his shoulder at the countess: **“I’m going to take this boy from you. I’m doing this, even though he’s dear to me, because I know you love him. Come with me, boy. I’m ready to do something extreme. I’ll sacrifice this boy I care for, just to spite a beautiful woman with a heart of stone.”**

Was this the answer then? Did she have to die so that Olivia would stop loving an imaginary figment? Would that then incline her heart towards the duke once more, and bring peace and happiness to Illyria, instead of this rancor and confusion. _Have I done anything but cause chaos and disarray since I intruded upon this fair land?_ **“And I would die a thousand deaths cheerfully, if it made your life easier.”**

Olivia gaped in a very un-ladylike manner—this was taking loyalty and duty a bit far! **“Where are you going Cesario?”**

 **“Following the one I love more than my eyes or my life. More than I will ever love a wife,”** Viola said all in a rush. Perhaps If she showed both at once where her heart truly lay, this could all end without her beloved sullying his hands with anyone’s blood.

**“Ah, how awful, I feel so used! I’ve been tricked!”**

Olivia’s cry was sharper than one of a lady who realized she’d fallen for an unattainable man, Viola knew all too well. Some anger returned, as the girl knew she had not been at fault for Olivia’s mistake, and the countess had no right to play the victim in a mess of her own making. **“Who tricked you? Who treated you badly?”** she demanded. _As heaven and all its angels are witness, it was never me!_

 **“Have you completely forgotten? Has it been so long?”** the countess demanded. Cesario seemed to have changed yet again, and gone was the soft-spoken gentleman who’d promised to love her forever! Turning to one of her ladies-in-waiting, Olivia ordered, **“Call the priest.”**

As the girl nodded and returned into the house, Orsino’s patience (never a strong or certain thing in the best of times) snapped. Turning once more towards the gate and the street beyond, he again barked at Cesario: **“Come on, let’s go!”**  He no longer intended to kill the boy, he never had, really, but he would do everything he could to keep the would-be lovers apart.

Olivia didn’t know this, and in desperate fear for her husband’s safety, she broke the promise she made to him before they wed: **“Go where, my lord? Cesario, my husband, stay here!”**

For three heartbeats, silence lay over the courtyard as Orsino turned slowly to regard the stunned boy beside him.

 **“Husband?”** the duke growled at last.

Olivia drew herself up, each word sharply and clearly so that there was no possibility she’d be misunderstood. **“Yes, husband. Can he deny it?”**

Could he? **“Are you her husband, boy?”**

 **“No, my lord, not me!”** Viola insisted. Had the lady gone mad to make so bold a claim, or was she merely trying to spare a life that hadn’t been in danger?

 **“You’re afraid, so you hide your identity. But don’t be afraid, Cesario. Accept the good luck that’s come your way. Be the person you know you are, and you’ll be as powerful as this person you fear.”** Olivia interrupted her own speech as she saw the priest who’d overseen the sacred and secret ceremony not long before emerge into the courtyard. **“Oh, hello, Father! Father, could I please ask you to tell these people what happened between me and this young man? I know we wanted to hide it, but now the situation demands that we reveal everything.”**

Oblivious to the dangerous mood, the holy man beamed as he remembered the beautiful moment it had been. **“They were joined in an eternal bond of love and matrimony, and it was confirmed by a holy kiss and an exchange of rings. I witnessed it all as priest. It took place just two hours ago.”**

Orsino whirled on the boy beside him, grabbing the boy’s jaw in a firm grip as he roared in the frightened face: **“Oh, you little liar! How much worse will you be when you’re older?”** he stopped then, seeing genuine fear in those blue eyes, and found he could not bring himself to do any injury to the boy, though this treachery could never be undone. Dropping his hand, the duke turned stiffly away, not even looking at his one-time servant. **“Goodbye, and take her. Just never set foot in any place where you and I might happen to meet.”**

 **“My lord, I swear to you—”** Viola began, only to be interrupted by her ‘wife’.

**“Oh, don’t sweat! Keep a little bit of honesty, even if you’re afraid!”**

If honesty was what they wanted form her, perhaps the time had come to give it to them—

**“For the love of God, call a doctor! Sir Toby needs help right away!”**

All turned to see the lanky figure of Sir Andrew stumbling in through the gate, a blood-stained cloth tied hastily around his head. Olivia gaped yet again, but managed to splutter out: **“What’s the matter?”**

 **“He cut my head and gave Sir Toby a bloody head, too. For the love of God, help us! I’d give forty pounds to be safe at home right now.”** He was done in this place—done with Sir Andrew. There had to be easier ways to get a wife!

Olivia frowned in confusion—confusion shared by all present save the frantic knight. **“Who did this, Sir Andrew?”**

**“The count’s messenger, Cesario. We thought he was a coward, but he fights like the devil!”**

Orsino frowned, wondering if he was the one meant, though the title was wrong. **“My Cesario?”** he therefore asked.

Andrew turned at the new voice, starting as his eyes fell on the figure in white beside the duke. **“Oh no, there he is!”** the gawky coward hid behind the priest and called over to the much-smaller boy: **“You cut my head for no reason. Anything I did to you, I did it because Sir Toby made me.”**

This claim was almost as preposterous as the one Olivia had made! **“Why are you talking like this? I never hurt you. You waved your sword at me for no reason, but I was nice to you. I didn’t hurt you.”**

 **“If a bloody head counts as a hurt, then you hurt me,”** Sir Andrew insisted. Catching sight of his fellow knight, the pathetic fellow pointed him out: **“Here comes Sir Toby, limping.”**

 **“Hello, sir! How are you?”** Orsino asked the older knight, who seemed in slightly worse condition than his fellow—bleeding from a cut to his leg as well as one to his head.

Sir Toby was in a foul mood brought on by pain and inconvenience both. This was not how he’d intended to spend the afternoon—he had preparations to make for that night! **“It doesn’t matter how I am, he hurt me and that’s that.”** Spotting Feste in the back of the crowd, he bellowed to the curly-haired young man, **“Fool, have you seen Dick the surgeon?”**

 **“Oh, he’s drunk, Sir Toby, for a whole hour now. His eyes started glazing over around eight in the morning,”** the fool answered honestly.

Sir Toby growled, swaying a little. **“Then he’s no good. I hate a no-good drunk!”**

 **“Take him away!”** Olivia ordered, asking again, **“Who did this to him?”**

 **“I’ll help you, Sir Toby,”** Sir Andrew offered, reaching out to the older man. **“They’ll treat our wounds together.”**

 **“Will you help me?”** Sir Toby replied, shouting angrily at his one-time dupe. He was done with this fool—he’d brought nothing but trouble and ruined what should have been the best of days! His was not the company the bald man craved at the moment. **“What an ass and a fool, a gullible no-good idiot!”**

Olivia shook her head as her uncle shouted so loud his voice cracked and Sir Andrew stumbled back, stricken. Turning to Feste, she ordered again: **“Get him to bed, and make sure his wounds are treated.”**

Sir Andrew had already fled inside, and Sir Toby allowed himself to be sullenly led away by the jester.

Before any present could comment on the confusion that had come in the wake of the two knights, another figure in white dashed in as he sheathed his sword. Seeming not to notice any others in the courtyard, the newcomer made straight for Olivia, calling an apology as he came. **“I’m sorry, madam, I wounded your relative.”**

Sebastian hesitated as he took in Olivia’s strange, silent stare and he did his best to muster a smile as he took her hands in his own. **“You’re looking at me strangely, so I guess you’re offended. But please forgive me, darling, for the sake of the vows we made to each other so recently.”**

 **“One face, one voice, one way of dressing, but two people! It’s like an optical illusion. It is and isn’t the same person!”** Orsino looked between the two boys, who could be mirror images of the other, muttering to himself as he tried to process what this development could mean.

The newcomer now seemed to realize that he and the countess were not alone in the courtyard, and his gaze next fell on the man held between two officers. **“Antonio, oh my dear Antonio!”** he cried in delight at seeing his friend again. **“I’ve been so tortured since I lost track of you?”**

 **“Are you Sebastian?”** Antonio asked in the voice of one addressing a phantasm or ghost.

 **“Do you have any doubts, Antonio?”**  the other replied. He then noticed his friend’s gaze flicker towards someone behind him, and turned to see another boy in a white suit identical to his own had taken a few paces away from another crowd of people and turned his back to all there.

Slowly, the other person turned, and Sebastian saw his own face and feature looking back at him, and could barely hear Antonio’s rambling over the pounding of his own heart.

**“How did you divide yourself in two? These two people are as identical as two halves of an apple. Which one is Sebastian?”**

Olivia looked from one to the other, unable to force herself to even consider what this strange spectacle could mean for her. **“How unbelievable!”**

Sebastian took a step forward, the words drawn from him almost without his realizing it. **“Is that me standing over there? I never had a brother.”** The ghostly figure took a step forward themselves, and Sebastian kept speaking. “ **I had a sister who drowned. Are you from my country? What’s your name? Who are your parents?”**

 **“I’m from Messaline. Sebastian was my father’s name, and my brother was named Sebastian too.”** Every fiber in her being wanted to believe this was no one but her brother, but in a land as mad and madcap as this, there were less pleasant possibilities... **“If ghosts can take on someone’s body and clothes, you must be a spirit who’s come to frighten us.”**

The coincidences were too great to be mere chance... **“If you were a woman, I’d hug you now and cry, and say ‘Welcome back, drowned Viola!’”**

 **“My father had a mole on his forehead,”** Viola offered, taking a step forward.

Sebastian mirrored the movement, affirming: **“Mine did, too.”**

 **“He died on Viola’s thirteenth birthday.”** Another step.

Another step—and now the two were less than an arm’s reach from each other. **“Oh, I remember that very clearly! It’s true, he died on the day my sister turned thirteen.”**

 **“If the only thing keeping us from rejoicing is the fact that I’m wearing men’s clothes, then don’t hug me till I can prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that I’m Viola.”** Viola couldn’t suppress a smile as she saw her brother—for now she had not doubt it was he—visibly rankle at the thought of such a delay in their reunion. **“I’ll take you to a sea captain here in town who’s got my women’s clothing in storage. He saved my life so I could serve this noble count. Everything that’s happened to me since then has involved my relationship with this lady and this lord.”**

Suddenly, his encounters with Olivia made sense, and Sebastian turned back to his wife who stared at him in fear as the truth dawned upon her. Hoping to soften the blow, he offered, **“So you got it wrong, my lady. You would’ve married a maiden. But that’s not completely wrong. I’m still a virgin, so in a sense I’m a maiden too.”**

 **“If this is all as true as it seems to be, then I’m going to have a share in that lucky shipwreck,”** Orsino declared, regarding ‘Cesario’ in light of this revelation, and thinking over their many conversations about love in a completely new light. **“Boy, you told me a thousand times you’d never love a woman as much as you love me.”**

Viola turned back to the duke, hiding her fear behind simple honesty. **“Everything I said before I’ll say again. I swear, I meant every word.”**

 **“Give me your hand,”** Orsino asked as he crossed to stand beside her, **“and let me see you dressed in woman’s clothing.”**

There was one obstacle to this happy ending, then: **“The captain who brought me to shore has my women’s clothes. For some reason he’s in prison now on some legal technicality, on Malvolio’s orders. Malvolio is a gentleman in my lady’s entourage.”**

 **“He’ll release him,”** Olivia promised as Feste, having delivered his charge into a surgeon’s capable hands, returned to watch the show. Then, remembering events from earlier int hat day, her face fell. **“But, oh no! Now I remember, they sat the poor man is mentally ill.”** Spotting the jester, she called, **“How is Malvolio doing, do you know?”**

All eyes turned to the young man as he shrugged nonchalantly. **“Well, he keeps the devil away as well as a man can in his situation. He’s written you a letter.”**

**“Open it and read it.”**

Feste couldn’t resist a joke as his mistress’s order. **“There’s a lot to learn when a fool recites the words of a madman.”** Then, mustering a warbling, wavering tone, he began: **“‘I swear to God, madam’—”**

 **“Why are you talking like that?”** Olivia demanded. **“Are you insane?”**

**“No, madam, I’m just reading an insane letter.”**

Olivia rolled her eyes and snatched the letter from the fool’s hands, thrusting into the hands of a startled Fabian. **“Oh, you read it, sir.”**

Fabian glanced at the jester uncertainly, but his friend merely shrugged and gestured for him to read. Clearing his throat, the young servant did so: **“‘I swear to God, madam, you’ve wronged me, and I’ll tell the whole world. You’ve shut me up in a dark room and given your drunken cousin authority over me, but I’m as sane as you are. I’ve got a letter from you encouraging me to act the way I did. If I didn’t have it, I couldn’t prove that I’m right and you’re wrong. I don’t care what you think of me. I’m going to forget my duties to you a little bit and complain about the injuries you’ve caused me. Signed: the poorly treated Malvolio.’”**

All present exchanged confused glances—would this day ever consent to make sense for more than five minutes at a stretch?

 **“Did he write this?”** Olivia demanded, to which Feste nodded solemnly, sensing the end of the jest drawing near.

**“Yes, madam.”**

It was Orsino who summed up the opinion of all present who had not encountered Malvolio in the midst of his ‘madness’: **“It doesn’t sound like an insane person’s letter.”**

 **“Set him free,”** Olivia ordered, apparently agreeing with the duke. **“Fabian, bring him here.”** The servant left to do his lady’s bidding and the countess returned her mind to the happier of the two current matters. Taking Sebastian’s hand, she led him over to where Orsino waited by Cesario—no, Viola. **“My lord, I hope that after you think things over a bit you’ll come to like the idea of having me as a sister-in-law instead of a wife. We can have the weddings tomorrow if you want, here at my own house. I’ll pay for everything.”**

 **“I accept that offer happily, madam,”** Orsino replied, bowing, and finding that he truly meant it. He turned to the lady beside him, still smiling at the joke Fate had played on all present, that now all could laugh at. **“So, you’re free now. I’m offering you my hand in marriage because of your loyal service to me, which was far from what any woman should be expected to do, especially a noble woman. You’ve called me “master” for so long. And now you’ll be your master’s mistress.”**

Olivia let go of Sebastian’s hand and took his sister’s, determined to be the one to move them past the confusion and awkwardness of the previous few months, and her mistake. **“You’ll be my sister-in-law!”** Viola returned the other woman’s smile, relieved to longer be her ‘lover’ or her rival, but before she could reply, Fabian returned, bringing in his wake the madman, Malvolio.

He was dressed in the same wild outfit as before, but now very much in disarray, with one leg free of laces, one sleeve torn, the whole ensemble smudged with dirt and his ridiculous hat nowhere to be seen

Orsino raised an eyebrow at the sight, more willing now to believe that this steward was, in fact, deprived of his good sensed. **“Is this the madman?”**

 **“Yes, my lord,”** Olivia replied, before turning back to her steward and asking quietly, **“How are you, Malvolio?”**

 **“Madam,”** he began, voice taught and quivering with rage and indignation that, in less extreme circumstances, he’d never have let himself express. **“You have treated me badly, very badly.”**

Casting her mind back to his forward advances that very day, Olivia shook her head. **“I did, Malvolio? No.”**

Malvolio stormed into the courtyard, staying well clear of all present but waving a sheet of paper in his hand as he continued to rail in his own defense. **“You did. Please have a look at this letter. You can’t deny that it’s your handwriting. And tell me honestly, why did you show me such fondness and asked me to smile at you, wear yellow stockings and crisscrossed laces for you, and be rude to Sir Toby and the servants?** **And then tell me why you imprisoned me in a dark house** and sent the priest to me **after I followed your instructions perfectly. You made me look like the biggest fool that anybody ever tricked. Tell me why you did it.”**

A few present glanced at the priest, still present in the garden, but he only shook his head—he’d not yet had an opportunity to visit the poor man yet. For her part, Olivia took the letter and read it silently, ignoring those who watched her. Finally, she finished and turned sadly back to her poor, mistreated, servant.

 **“I’m sorry, Malvolio,”** she said at last, **“but this isn’t my writing, though I admit it looks like mine. It’s definitely Maria’s handwriting. Now that I think about it, Maria was the one who first told me you were insane. That’s when you came in smiling at me, dressed up like the letter said, and acting just like it told you to act. Someone has played a very mean trick on you, but when we find out who’s responsible, you won’t just be the victim, but the judge who sentences the culprit. I promise.”**

When Fabian saw Malvolio’s eyes light up at the thought of taking revenge on Maria, the servant found his tongue. His cousin had suffered enough at the hands of this man who had once claimed to love her, and on this day, he’d let nothing spoil her happiness or her triumph, even if that meant taking blame for something he didn’t do. **“Madam, let me say something. Please don’t let squabbles ruin this beautiful and miraculous moment. I confess that Toby and I were the ones who tricked Malvolio because we hated his strict and heavy-handed ways. Sir Toby had Maria write that letter, and he married her as a reward.”** There was surprised gasp and muttering from the assembly, and Malvolio’s face almost turned purple as the implications sunk in: the girl he’d refused to marry in hopes of later advancing up the social ladder, had become a lady, and thus a noble, by marring a knight! She’d become his better by the very method he’d hoped only a few hours before to use.

When he could be heard again, Fabia continued his plea: **“We should just laugh about the whole thing rather than get upset about it, especially if we consider that each of the two parties offended the other equally.”**

Olivia looked between the two men for a moment before finally facing the steward with her judgement: **“Oh, poor fool, they’ve really humiliated you!”**

 **“I was part of the trick, sir,”** Feste admitted, strolling up to Malvolio and throwing a hand over his shoulder. **“I pretended to be a priest named Sir Topas.”** He smirked at Malvolio, then imitated him to his face: **“’I swear, fool, I’m not crazy’. But do you remember what he said about me before?”** he asked the group in general before locking eyes with Olivia and again imitating Malvolio’s voice and manner: **“‘I’m surprised you enjoy the company of this stupid troublemaker—unless he’s got somebody laughing at him, he can’t think of anything to say’.”** He released Malvolio, took two steps back, and gave a mock-bow, proclaiming his last word with the ring of a truism: **“What goes around comes around.”**

Malvolio glared at the whole assembly, realizing he had no sympathy from a single one of them—many of whom he had personally alienated. **“I’ll get my revenge on every last one of you!”** He then turned on his heel and stormed back into the house.

Olivia watched him go, frowning in concern. **“He really was tricked horribly.”**

 **“Go after him and try to calm him down”** Orsino ordered his entourage, who hurried to obey. Olivia nodded for her servants to do so as well, and all but Feste returned the nod and left the garden to the four lovers. Even the officers led Antonio into the house, certain now he was going to be released.

All this went almost unnoticed as Orsino gave the reason for his order: **“He still hasn’t told us about the captain. When that’s been taken care of and the time is right, we’ll all get married. Until then, we’ll stay here, my dear sister-in-law.”** Olivia nodded graciously, and the duke turned to the girl beside him, holding out his hand, which she took. **“Cesario, come here. I’ll keep calling you Cesario while you’re still a man, but when we see you in women’s clothes you’ll be the queen of my dreams, Orsino’s true love.”**

They paused there a moment, siblings and spouses, twins and true loves, before they, too, entered Olivia’s house together, leaving Feste alone in the courtyard. The jester turned once more to his imaginary audience, gave a small bow, then began to sing softly:

**_“When that I was and a little tiny boy:  
_ ** **_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain!  
_ ** **_A foolish thing was but a toy.  
_ ** **_For the rain it raineth every day—  
_ ** ****_It raineth every day!_

**_“But when I came to man’s estate:  
_ ** **_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain—”_ **

As the fool sang those lines, a lone figure emerged from the house. It was Antonio, bound once more for his home after politely declining an invitation to stay longer. For friendship’s sake, he would come and visit Sebastian later, but what he felt now was a longing for his own country, and a kind of release—he felt at peace, as if he no longer owed his brother or his friend a kind of debt; he’d felt forgiveness and forgiven himself. He nodded to Feste as he crossed paths with the jester, but his gait never faltered as he turned his back on Illyria.

**_“'Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate.  
_ ** **_For the rain it raineth every day—  
_ ** ****_It raineth every day!”_

The ‘knave and fool’ of the past few months—Sir Andrew—came out of the house then, as if summoned by Feste’s words. There was a bandage beneath his top hat and a suitcase in his gloved hands; he was making good on all his promises to leave that house at last, his final few ounces of spirit broken by Toby’s earlier tirade. Only time would tell if his experiences had taught him to tell false friends from true ones, or given him a clearer view of himself, but it would be other people and places that would witness if such a change had been enacted, or wasted on an empty-headed knight. Without any sort of acknowledgement at all, Sir Andrew brushed by the fool who’d made a fool of him, and stumbled down the path to parts unknown.

**_“But when I came—alas!—to wive,  
_ ** **_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain—”_ **

As the next stanza began, the newlyweds, Sir Toby and Lady Maria also crossed from house to gate, suitcase in hand. After Toby had proposed, the two had made plans to return to his long-abandoned homestead and try no longer the patience and hospitality of Olivia’s house. Whether Toby could make an honest woman of the little prankster, or whether Maria could help with his new resolve towards sobriety remained to be seen, but it was certain their new life together would be anything but dull. Nodding to the fool in passing, they boldly faced their future, hand-in-hand.

**_“By swaggering could I never thrive.  
_ ** **_For the rain it raineth every day—  
_ ** ****_It raineth every day!”_

Fabian was not far behind his cousin and her new husband, being one of the servants who’d taken the offer the two had extended to their friends in Olivia’s house: any who wished to escape Malvolio’s tyranny and almost-certain retribution were welcome to come with them and start a new life along with the couple. The brown-haired servant was the first to stop by the jester, and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder, silently asking yet again if Feste would join in with the exodus. The fool merely smiled and shook his head—he’d try his luck and continue to ply his trade in the houses of countess and duke alike. 

Fabian at last had to leave his friend there, and in the solitude of the garden, Feste sang his final stanza, his final words:

**_“A great while ago the world begun,  
_ ** **_With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,  
_ ** **_But that’s all one, our play is done,  
_ ** **_And we’ll strive to please you every day—  
_ ** ****_Strive to please you every day!”_

* * *

_This is the picture after the pictures: as the final words of Feste’s song fade into mere memory, the shadows in the garden lengthen and condense, until only the fool is left, standing in a pool of light, facing his imaginary audience with a small, knowing smile._

_There is only a little light left on the door to Olivia’s house, where an austere figure, once more in neat, severe black suit stands, pasty face pale in rage as Malvolio glares coldly at his rival, the still-smiling fool. With his black suit blending into the encroaching shadows, he appears to be a monstrous, half-human figure spun from darkness itself._

_The rest of the light seeps away, and we can no longer see the two, but we ae left as unsettled as were at the beginning of the comedy, for all the joy and light that we have seen unfold before us. We are unable to shake the impression that Malvolio’s promised revenge is coming, and will break with most of its force upon the fool, perhaps erasing that smile forever._

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. A bit of an odd ending, I know, but because Malvolio is described as a puritan a few times in the script, my director created that moment as a foreshadowing of the time when the puritans closed all the theaters following Cromwell’s revolution. Unfortunately, most of our audience didn’t get that—and I can’t blame them—but knowing what it represented, I had to keep it in. Plus, I love the feel of that moment; it was so cool!


End file.
